To Create Perfection
by Hikou no Kokoro
Summary: Let me tell you a story. It is about a man named Arthur Kirkland, who had been dreaming of working in BCWD, the world-famous lab in the World Domain where science is free from controversy caused by religion. He succeeded. But now he questions this "advancement." Can he save anybody? Or will his friends and enemies crush him first? Here, "In BCWD, Science is your Humanity."
1. Theory 1

**Yo! Hikou no Kokoro is back and better than ever! Well, not necessarily the latter, but you get what I mean. I'm finally back into writing and this is what I somehow ended up concocting. _To Create Perfection_ is finally here, and it'll be my first chaptered Hetalia fic after my weird hiatus, and hopefully my first completed fic. I've already written the first few chapters, so I'll post them up when I feel like it (most likely about a week and a half away from now). Unfortunately, Kit-chan hasn't edited this yet, but hopefully this thing won't be too bad without her.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy! And, please note, this will _not_ be a first-person fic.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia,_ which is owned by Himayura Hidekaz. I simply own this AU plot.**

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To Create Perfection

"The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be."  
—Paul Valery

"Theory 1: Prologue"

What was the happiest moment in your life? Was it when you kissed your spouse on your wedding day? Was it when you made your first friend? Was it when you were reunited with your long-lost family, friend, special someone? Was it when you realised that there's somebody by your side to help you up when you fall? Was it when you were saved? Was it when you had a hand to hold when crossing the street? Or, was it when that one person who caused your eternal suffering had died, was executed, or was killed by your hand?

Whatever it was, keep it close. That's what I did. I don't know if that was what shaped me into what I am now—blind, immobile, stupid, forgotten—but I do know that I don't regret it. I carry it with me every second I'm living through. Why wouldn't I? It was the happiest day of my life. And it was also my saddest.

I remember seeing a boy on a stage. He was smiling, holding a plaque and a letter. The whole audience was clapping and standing. Even the people behind him were cheering. Everyone congratulated him. But, all the praises did not highlight why this moment was his happiest.

You see, he had been dreaming to go to the World Domain. I mean, why wouldn't he? Located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, it was an artificial island made of trash. Trash, of all things! Scum had become the foundation of the very symbol of science, innovation, and reason. Or, to be more accurate, the symbol had turned garbage into greatness. And everyone wanted a taste of this advancement. But that wasn't the only part of the World Domain that made it famous. What made it truly amazing were its purpose and the things it did, namely the creation of the Buchen Centre of Scientific Experimentation in the World Domain, or BCWD for short.

Sometime, about 170 years ago, a few countries—e.g. America, Britain, France, Germany, China, and Russia—had decided to create a reserved island, or a nation, specialised in scientific advancements. Now, why would this idea pass, you may ask? Well, before science had been limited by people and their emotions. Angry protesters would scream out, claiming an experiment as immoral. With these vicious objections, scientists would hesitate, becoming afraid and stunting the rate of discoveries and advancements. That was no good. So the United States proposed an idea: What if science was completely separated from humanity? That way, beliefs and politics wouldn't go messing around with potentially ground-breaking research. Although some countries deeply rooted in religion spoke out against such audacious ideas, the majority agreed and created the World Domain. Standing upon land converted from trash, the World Domain strove only for science and reason. It had a government run by logic, not people. There were no imaginary borders, for they were useless anyway. People could do whatever they wanted, but only within reason. Justice was based on reason, rather than emotion or morality. The World Domain was a black-and-white environment. Things were made simple. And everything made sense.

The World Domain also stood at the very pinnacle of scientific development. Nobody was there to make it controversial. As long as something had a purpose, no research would be stopped. And that made advancements so much easier, and miraculous discoveries like Romulus Vargas' cure for cancer and Alan Bielschmidt's cure for Alzheimer's had been found at rates history had never seen before. Thus, many have not regretted the separation of science from humanity; so many lives have been saved due to all the lab work previously stunted and controversial.

So scientists around the world hoped to work in one of the World Domain's prestigious labs. However, predictably, only the most capable were allowed access. Although money had a role in sponsorships, the wealth of candidates was completely disregarded until the population was whittled down into only the competent of all social classes. But, what did _competence_ mean in the World Domain? Minimalist requirements? Passing by the skin of teeth? No. Competence meant genius. And genius meant perfection. And perfection was above and beyond.

By these standards, only one out of thousands was able to get into the World Domain's prestigious labs. And only one out of hundreds of thousands was able to work in the centre of the island's network of labs, BCWD. As a result, joining BCWD's staff was a lofty dream, even for those who have lived in the World Domain's high standards for all their lives.

However, many still held this lofty dream. And one of them was the boy on the stage.

Now, let me tell you a bit about the boy on the stage. He was a dreamer. Always was, like the rest of his family. He wanted to live in a happy, beautiful world, just like the ones in his beloved fairy tales and fantasies. Unfortunately, that would never happen. He knew that. So he decided to at least help make the world better. As a result, he resolved to save lives. At least, then, the world would become just a bit happier, even with all the strife and tragedies. And what else would be the best way to save lives? Science of course. And where was the best place to go for science? BCWD. This was his dream.

But there was a slight problem. His parents specialised in folklore and theology, both dying fields. They had little hands in science or even mathematics. His father could barely do arithmetic, and his mother knew only the minimum of algebra. So familial-wise, he didn't stand a chance to anyone who grew up with scientists or mathematicians. Additionally, he lived outside of the World Domain. That caused some problems. He didn't live under the near impossible standards necessary in the World Domain, so he wasn't used to the toil experienced by students of the island. And finance became a problem. The World Domain may disregard monetary wealth, but the rest of the world didn't. The boy's parents made little, for professions in folklore and theology required a lot of money, specifically for travel, and gave little to none. As a result, the whole family barely went by necessity-wise, and the children themselves had to pay for any extra education, especially the eldest brother, who was able to get a job first so had to fund for his younger siblings. But, how much could a child of no profession provide for income? Not much compared to the costs of advanced education anyway.

Despite these factors, the boy kept dreaming. He did small chores before getting a real job. And then he used his salary solely for schooling, textbooks, and maybe a few novels, for they were his sole luxury he allowed. As for homework, he had a habit of going above and beyond. He would look for extra work to refine his knowledge and extra research for any information that he may find interesting. Although the humanities classes were by far his favourite due to his natural genius for them, he continued to focus on science, taking additional classes to possibly learn even more. But, most of all, he continued hoping that, one day, an opportunity would send him to at least one of the smaller labs of the World Domain.

Eventually one did. He was recognised to be a candidate for perfect genius. His teachers, let them be in his public high school or his paid advanced classes, immediately sent letters of recommendations, raving about his genius and brilliant work ethic. By the end of his high school years, scholarships were flying at him, imploring him to accept. But only one caught his eye. He had received it upon the stage during his high school graduation. And he would never trade it with anything else in the world. It promised the fulfilment of his childhood dreams: An all-tuition-paid five to six years in the esteemed BCWD University, the school that almost guaranteed the entry to BCWD.

In one moment, one boy's impossible dream became within reach.

Now who was this boy? This genius of both science and humanities? Arthur Kirkland, of course.

What, you thought it was me? Don't be stupid. I may have been a dreamer, but I have accomplished nothing in my life. I was, and still am, simply an observer, whose point of view is from a soldier living as far as the sky. A spectator with wrathful benevolence as his sole virtue, and a gun his only kindness. That's who I am. It's nothing much, really. Nothing important.

What's important is Arthur Kirkland. The boy who became a famous scientist and a world's hero. He's the centre of it all. And he's the end of BCWD's notorious history, starting with this moment on stage with scholarship in hand. He was the beginning of a war. With battles between science and humanity. Where even God was a soldier.

Let me tell you my story.


	2. Law 1, Part 1

**Hiya, Hikou no Kokoro is back again, bring you the first real chapter! The plot doesn't quite start rising, but it gives off implications. This fic will take a while set up, due to its large cast and more complex situations and settings. So bear with me; this will certainly heat up soon!**

**Well, enjoy! I hope you like this!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. I'm merely using Himayura Hidekaz's characters for this AU plot.**

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To Create Perfection

"Science does not know its debt to imagination."  
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Law 1: God Save the People, Part 1"

Francis Bonnefoy was having a bad day. A very, very bad day. Outside was bright and shining, as if somebody had painted the weather, or the weather had decided to look like a painting. The sun was out, a nice breeze blew through, and a few clouds speckled the sky to keep things interesting. Almost everyone was out and about, doing whatever he or she pleased, so the streets were bustling with life and happiness. Francis would have loved to share the experience with everybody. He was a man of complete adoration, and he absolutely _adored_ people. If the weather hadn't already persuaded him that the day was going to be great, then the amount of people he could talk to certainly would. He wanted to meet all the amazing people, and possibly flirt with a pretty lady or gentleman to make the lucky person's day a bit more enjoyable than it was a few minutes before. But, no, he was stuck inside, doing paperwork, God's choice torture weapon.

Now, this man was a horrid procrastinator. He loved people too much, living only to interact. To him, there was no other purpose in life other than to meet and to talk. This attitude had naturally seeped into his work ethic. Paperwork was unimportant, and he wanted to avoid it as much as possible. But what was so wrong with that? Who wouldn't do the same? At a fundamental level, Francis was like a normal person. But normal people didn't have his problem. Generally, they would work anyway due to a sense of duty and responsibility. They would wait for the last minute, when the deadline loomed over their heads, and then finish anything they hadn't done. But not Francis. Even when the deadlines were holding knives to his neck, he would still lean back, smile, and shrug them off. In fact, he would often continue to procrastinate when his projects were far overdue. Although his slave-driver superior could be threatening his very _life,_ he would still dawdle, smiling and enjoying the "conversation." That was the type of man he was.

So it wasn't surprising that Francis had waited until his papers were twelve hours overdue before even looking at them. Normally nobody would be bothered by that. After all, his main contribution to the facility was to wander around and help others complete their work, not write reports about his own. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case. Francis knew that right from the beginning. Used to maybe one or two packets to review per project, Francis was shocked when he saw papers stacked high above his head on the desk and the floor. Immediately he had known the gravity of the subject. These "projects" happened every two years ever since he became a full employee. He was to take an intern under his wing, teaching him or her everything there was to know about his or her new job. It was a very important job, especially since mentors were a dying species in the workplace, and everyone expected perfection. Truthfully, he never really minded that. He was forever a lover of people, and these projects always brought joy to his heart, promising constant company. However, joy had strings attached; an unbearable amount of paperwork had barrelled its way into Francis' life. And like always, Francis had pushed it to the backseat.

If he had just started the paperwork earlier, instead of running off to flirt, he wouldn't be stuck indoors, gazing out the window. However, when he got the papers four months ago, which was two times longer than usual due to the early graduation of his previous apprentice and the unusual genius of his recently assigned one, he had a dreadful case of indolence. So he simply did not do _anything_. He didn't care if he would piss off more people than he could handle. They would be much more exciting than sitting around doing paperwork all day.

Then there was a knock.

"Shit!" Francis hissed. He immediately knew that he was in trouble. Could it be Ludwig? Probably was. Nobody would disturb Francis except for an outraged German. And if it was Ludwig, that meant that Francis was dead, and that meant he needed to hide. Although he much preferred being yelled at than doing work, he wasn't stupid. He didn't like getting metaphorically ripped to shreds; he merely preferred it over some other form of torture.

Should he hide underneath his desk? Or would it be better to duck behind the chair in the corner? Maybe it would be better to dive in his recycling bin and cower under the ungodly amount of papers. Well, wherever the best hiding place was, he needed to find it. Quick. So Francis shot out of his chair. His shoulder hit a stack of papers. The pile tipped. And the desperate man tried to stop it. But his other shoulder knocked down another stack. And two piles crashed to the ground with a flutter.

Francis groaned, inwardly crying. Great. There went his plan of escape. Now whoever was outside the door knew that he was in the office. No use in hiding. He gulped and sighed, praying to any old man in the sky. Last day of living and he had spent his time sitting behind a desk doing paperwork. What a horrible life.

"One moment," Francis called, straightening his white lab coat. He looked down at himself. He was wearing hospital scrubs and sneakers underneath. Nothing fancy; he couldn't quite say that he looked good in his uniform, save for his silky hair tied in a quaint blue bow. But still, it wasn't something anyone would want to be wearing when he died. So he was going to his grave looking ugly? Beautiful. Just what he wanted. At least he could make himself look half-way decent in this unattractive clothing.

Hoping that Ludwig wouldn't be cracking the whip any time soon, the man strode up to the door and opened it.

Two giant weasels greeted him.

Wait, were those weasels? Or were they obese caterpillars? Blinking, Francis stumbled back. To his relief, the two "weasels" were actually a pair of large, black eyebrows of a person, who, thankfully, was not Ludwig. But the person was just as disconcerting. In fact, Francis wouldn't really say that he was actually one whole person, but more like a compilation of every horrible feature imaginable: glowering eyes the colour of algae-infested ponds; messy hair resembling straw shaped into something like a failed bird's nest; and a frown carved into the face, like an eroded part of a peach-coloured stone. To top it all off, he wore a suit and tie in a desperate attempt to look decent, but the only success was looking more like a penguin-gone-wrong. What an unpleasant-looking man.

Francis leant against the doorway and said the first thing that came to mind: "You know, if you want to look good to somebody, you should do something with those horrifying eyebrows."

The man recoiled. His oversized eyebrows inched together like two ferrets kissing. "What?"

"Those eyebrows. They look more like pets than facial features. What, do you feed them three times a day?"

The suit-wearing man sputtered; his mouth flapped open and close; the once-glaring eyes widened. It was a perfect picture of shock. Then the eyes narrowed; his mouth pressed into a thin line; he growled. It had turned into a perfect picture of outrage. "Are you disrespecting me?"

Francis held his hands up in the air, surrendering. "Oh, no, sir. I'm merely criticising."

"About my eyebrows?"

"Most certainly. You look unpleasant, but those eyebrows simply make your image more atrocious."

The man grabbed Francis' collar, showing his teeth and breathing into Francis' face. God, what did he put in his mouth? His teeth looked more wolf-like than human, and his breath was as bad as sulphur's. "I should rip your pencil-drawn eyebrows off your face!"

Francis chuckled. His own perfect eyebrow arched. "I'm sorry, mon ami. But these are not pencil-drawn. I may be a brilliant artist, but even I cannot draw such life-like hair that even acts and feels like the real thing."

"You piss me off so much!"

"The feeling is mutual."

The stranger snarled. The hand gripping Francis' collar was trembling, curling around the cloth. Finally, with a thin sigh through a small hole between the lips, the outraged male let go of the other, leaving Francis' blue scrubs crinkled. Then he sighed again through his nose. The thin line of his lips loosened, and the coat of his suit was straightened. A peachy hand ran through straw-like hair, ruining the bird nest appearance and replacing it with a beaver dam one. "I apologise for my rudeness. I should have not lost control of myself." His voice vibrated through gritted teeth. "I am Arthur Kirkland, your new _subordinate._" He held out the hand that went through his hair. His pointer and middle fingers were twitching.

Francis opened his mouth to say something, but he chose against it. Instead, he decided to spare the poor man from further humiliation, smiled, hesitantly took the offered hand, and said, "I see. Then you know me?"

"Yes, Mr. Bun-foy."

"Bonnefoy," Francis corrected with a smile, "Francis Bonnefoy. But, call me Francis instead."

Arthur coughed. "Of course, _Mr. Bonnefoy_."

"Artie."

Arthur's lips pressed together into a thin line again. "Anyway, Mr. Bonnefoy, I am sure that you were surprised by my day-early visit."

"Of course I was. Anybody would be when they were randomly greeted by your pet eyebrows."

Arthur's mouth twitched. "But I am here to possibly start on any projects for my apprenticeship. It would be nice if you were to give me any documents that I should receive, and I will be on my way."

This time, it was Francis' smile that twitched. "Ah, paperwork." He turned his head, peering into his office with his hand gripping on the side of the doorway. The room was the same as it was a mere few minutes ago. Papers were scattered across the floor, and those that weren't loomed in stacks upon the desk and the floor. Some had been tossed into the yellow recycling bin and his tiny trash bin, which were pushed off to the side to be thrown out later. Francis pressed his lips together. There was no way that he was going to go search for whatever packet he was supposed to give to Arthur. Not only would Francis have to do even more work, but he would also be shoving a mental torture to this poor, unfortunate soul. Francis couldn't do that to the child.

Francis turned back around, smiling and placing his hands on Arthur's shoulder, and spun the other away from his office. "Unfortunately, I do not have these 'papers' that you mentioned."

"But the lady in the office said you did—"

"Then it must be in my mailbox," Francis laughed. He draped an arm over Arthur's shoulder and closed the office door behind him. That way, the other wouldn't know what a mess Francis was in. "Let's go together. As an added bonus, I'll give you a personal tour around BCWD." He winked.

Arthur pushed him away. "Don't even try." The annoyed male threw Francis' arm off. But the arm only returned.

"I insist! It'll be fun. If you want to work here, it would be a good idea to have a taste of the lab's layout or else you'll get lost."

With that, Francis led Arthur down the hallway, away from the office, away from the paperwork, and away from their responsibilities. Arthur wasn't happy with the situation, but he didn't have a choice. Francis chose by his own preference. It was a lot more fun wandering around together anyway. But even tours have a certain degree of dullness to them.

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The two had walked through various corridors, going farther and farther from the office. Francis had started off enthusiastic. Arms waving about; voice rising and falling; words filling itself with romanticism; smiles beaming; Francis used almost every technique he knew. However, Arthur's attitude was dead. Every gesture was looked down upon; every vocal dynamic was ignored; every word received a grunt in response; every smile only got a deeper scowl. The joy Francis sought was never present, probably killed by a stormy, cynical personality. Francis hoped that his own cheery disposition would lift Arthur's obvious dark mood. But, it seemed that it was working the other way around. After a while, Francis' enthusiasm and passion died down, quieting into a mere shimmer. His arms moved like limp noodles; his voice fell into a drone; words became a plain prose; the smile flatlined like a heart monitor. The tour had died and was turning around in its grave.

The two men were quite distance away from the office, thanks to Francis, but the man was starting to think that going so far away had been a bad idea. Arthur was so unpleasant and so boring that Francis figured that doing the paperwork would have been more exciting. So, he decided to take a "break," and the pair stopped on the side of the hallway where another hall joined and a window made a giant hole in the wall. The area was dull, like every other place they had travelled to, but it seemed to be even more torturous when the attempted tour had died.

Francis sighed and gave a disinterested glance out the window. Outside there was a large, white dome. The piece if architecture wasn't amazing; it was made by metal plates and curved beams. A few large garage doors made openings for trucks and people to go in and out. There were no windows in the walls, so nobody knew what exactly the workers were doing inside. However, Francis, having been around the area for a good six years, knew exactly what they were doing, although unaware of the details. In an unenthusiastic attempt to revive the tour's "liveliness," Francis lamely gestured outside at a white dome. "And that's the Land Control Centre," he drawled.

Suddenly, Arthur spun around and pressed his hands on the window, shocking Francis out of his place beside the railing. His green eyes widened and his mouth hung open. "Really?" he asked. "As in, the Land Control Centre? The headquarters?"

Francis blinked, as if the aura of excitement radiating from Arthur would disappear. It was almost as if Arthur had turned into a completely different person. "Yes?" he replied.

"Oh, wow! I've always wanted to see it in person! It's as amazing as I imagined."

"Really?" Francis too turned around, sparing the dome another look. Maybe he had missed something for the past six years, and Arthur had seen it immediately. Francis turned his head side to side, looking at it in different angles. He squinted. He pressed his face up to the window. His breath was fogging up the glass. But, the dome was the same as ever. White and plain. There was nothing truly amazing about the dome.

"Then your imagination is pretty boring."

Arthur glared at Francis, snarling. "You simply do not see the sheer awesomeness of this technological advancement, completely unique to the World Domain. It makes the very ground you stand on. Without it, you would be drowning."

Francis waved his hand and shrugged. "Yeah, yeah, I know. The facility takes trash and converts it into fertile soil, and all that crap."

"Exactly! They first take everything, detoxify it through the process of—"

"And it's super-duper amazing."

"Yeah… And more."

"But do you know what else is amazing?" Francis asked and pulled away from the window to cross his arms over his chest.

"What?" Arthur's eyes were locked on the white dome again.

"The workers, of course. Here, I'll point some out for you." Francis leaned back towards the window, peering past the edge of the floor to look at all the people running around on the pavement. Keeping one hand tucked underneath an elbow, Francis started pointing some individuals out. "That man with the straight-short blond hair is Vash Zwingli. He's the head of the Land Control Centre; almost everybody except Ludwig Beilschmidt bows to him, and he is pretty trigger-happy, so I suggest you to not piss him off too many times." Then his finger moved to another person. She looked almost exactly like the person he had pointed at before, except that she was significantly shorter and had braided hair going down to her shoulder blades. "The girl beside him is his sister, Lili Zwingli, one of the Detoxification Phase 3 employees. She's a real sweetheart, but don't hurt her or else her brother will stuff you through the detoxification process." Afterwards his hand made a sweeping gesture at the rows of armed men in green uniforms. "And those guys keep the whole facility safe from any enemy attacks. They're all top-notch soldiers; even Gil has no right to give orders to them." Francis paused and squinted. "Let's see if I can name them all: Allen Walker, Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye, Yuu Kanda, Olivia Armstrong, Break Xerxes, Tôshirô Hitsugaya, Sebastian Michaelis, and… I think that those guys there are Syaoran Li, Fai Flourite, and Kurogane Daidôji. I can't tell because of their visors, but I know that they are always together." Francis stopped his pointing and smiled at Arthur. "You got all those names? I'll introduce you to them later if you want."

But Arthur had not moved, his mouth still hanging open slightly. Francis paused for a bit and waited for a response. But Arthur's gaze was clearly on the facility's architecture, twitching from side to side but never down at the people below. The boy probably hadn't even listened to Francis.

The older man sighed, defeated. He still didn't know what was so interesting about the building. What was made it so that it would cause Arthur to completely disregard the people below? Everything made no sense. Well, to each their own, right? For the past hour, Arthur had not shown a single sign of excitement. It was good to see him passionate about something. To take that away would be considered cruel, and Francis certainly wouldn't like that adjective pasted onto his character. So, turning around and leaning against the railings, Francis decided to allow Arthur to indulge himself to whatever strange tastes the boy had. It shouldn't be long; nobody could stare at a building so intently for a long period of time, after all. It was simply a matter of waiting, and Francis was good at that. He knew the trick: Just keep the mind busy with what was going on around it and time should fly by. And that was exactly what he did.

A voice echoed from down the hallway cheerfully. A quieter voice muttered a few quick words. Then footsteps clicked away: High heels, stilettos, female. Another pair of footsteps shuffled from the area, closer. Two other pairs of footsteps padded from another direction, but they were too quiet to be completely discernible. Sneakers? Slippers? Bare feet? Were they coming closer or going further way? He couldn't quite tell. Deciding that he wasn't going to be bothered by the quiet pairs of footsteps, he turned his head to face the closest noise. Then, a male turned around the bend. His head was bowed as he flipped through slides on his tablet. From the back, Francis immediately picked out key features: lab coat; casual T-shirt and jeans; sneakers; brown hair; funny cowlick on the left; bouncy gait, similar to skipping; a fast talking voice muttering words of both English and Italian. Wait. Italian.

Francis let loose a high-pitched squeal.

"Feliciano!" The blond man tackled the brunette from behind, pulling the smaller body into a tight embrace. Francis gave the mass of brown hair a myriad of kisses. "I haven't seen you in a day!"

With large, brown eyes, Feliciano looked up. His mouth formed a little _o_ before stretching out into a giant grin. "Ciao, Big Brother Francis!" the brunette greeted with an airy voice that almost sang without meaning to. "How have you been doing?"

"Beautiful, like always!" Francis giggled and rubbed his cheek against the side of Feliciano's head. "How about you? That meany Ludwig is treating you well, yes?"

The boy laughed. It was a tinkling little sound, like music to Francis' ears. "Of course he is! He gives me extended pasta breaks if I do well and stuff. It's great"

"Wonderful." Francis sighed and smiled, resting his chin on the top Feliciano's head. The blond was still hugging Feliciano, but unlike the person he had been spending most of the day with, Feliciano did not move from his place except to wiggle his arms free so he could continue to work on a few documents saved on his tablet. Francis had always liked that about the little Italian; Francis could spontaneously hug Feliciano as much as and as long as he wanted, and the boy wouldn't even complain. Francis would miss that—who wouldn't?—but he would just have to learn to deal with a not-so-loveable person for company for the next two years. It was still a bit saddening though.

"Hey!"

"Watch where you're standing, you _asshole_!"

Francis let go of Feliciano and the two turned around. Arthur was no longer looking out the window, but instead glaring at somebody, who closely resembled Feliciano. In fact, the newcomer looked almost exactly like Feliciano. Luckily, Francis was able to pick out differing features. The other had a shade of dark brown hair hued with red instead of a solid light brown. A funny cowlick stuck out of the mass of hair like in Feliciano's hair, but it curled to the right rather than to the left. His eyes were a different shade as well. They were also brown, but underneath the sun shining from the window, they were almost green. Additionally, he was not in the same outfit as Feliciano. Instead of wearing casual clothes and sneakers, he had hospital scrubs and a pair fluffy, red slippers. A lab coat was also missing from the apparel, so that left the arms bare, revealing bandages wrapped around both forearms and showing off a yellow, plastic hospital band. Unfortunately the differences stopped there: The facial structures were the same; they stood at similar heights; even their skin colours were alike.

Something in Francis' mind clicked; the boy was Lovino. And that was never a good sign if a fight broke out around him.

Dreading for the worst, Francis stepped forward. "You two should stop fighting," he intervened. But his voice did not carry.

"I say, watch where _you're_ going before you dizzily walk into somebody _standing_ off to the _bloody side_!" Arthur snapped back, gesturing at the empty space in the hallway.

"No, _you_ should stop wasting _space_!" Lovino spat.

"Wasting space? _Wasting space_? This hallway is wide enough for a five column band to _march_ through!"

Lovino stepped closer to Arthur. "I meant the space near the railing, _dumbass_! Go waste space somewhere else!"

Something must have snapped inside Arthur at that point. Green eyes flashed with absolute fury. He grabbed Lovino by the collar and pulled him up onto his toes. The shorter male grabbed at Arthur's hands. Then Arthur sneered, "Watch your language."

"Let him go."

Silence fell and everybody looked towards the direction of the new voice. A man clad in an outfit just like Lovino's stood with a hand on the railing and an IV stand between his pointer and middle fingers. Bandages, like Lovino's, covered his forearms except for the little area where the IV bag's tube was connected to. A red, plastic wristband was around his wrist, implying a similar situation to Lovino's. He stood a few centimetres higher than Francis and Arthur, but he was hunching a bit, so his stature was not as impressive as it could have been. He also had a fading tan, probably due to an extensive time indoors when he usually would be outside in the sun. Semi-curly, brown hair sagged on his head, like tendrils of a limp octopus. In reality, the man was in no shape to command full attention. But he did anyway. His bright green eyes glowered at Arthur. They almost appeared to glow due to the contrast between his skin and his irises. They had caught all the attention, not his stature and not his voice. And they held as much power as an animal ready to pounce from a cave.

Francis gulped. Antonio. And he was angry.

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Antonio growled. A thick accent had seeped into his language, and the words clicked together like a horse's hooves upon the pavement.

Hesitantly, Arthur unclenched his fist, leaving prominent wrinkles in Lovino's cloth. His gaze was still locked on the furious man before him, even when Lovino scampered behind Antonio. Then the man walked up to Arthur. The IV stand rolled beside him, but even its squealing wheels were not heard through the silence. Then his countenance twisted into a sneer. His corners of his mouth were pulled back, revealing his teeth. They were the sign of power, and they barely parted as Antonio hissed, "If you so _dare_ hurt him again, your blood will stain walls."

The threat floated above Arthur's head, and nobody said anything as Antonio shuffled around Arthur, keeping a hand on Lovino's shoulder and dragging his IV stand along with him. Both he and Lovino were the only moving beings in the hallways, and the noise from the squeaky wheels and the shuffling feet became the sole sound that cut through the humming silence. Antonio's head was held high, despite the slight hunch, and he ignored Arthur, who remained still and whose gaze did not dare follow. Then Antonio grabbed back onto the railing and, while picking up his feet, continued down the hallway. Lovino's head had been bowed the whole time, and Antonio chose this moment to ruffle the boy's hair. Francis could vaguely hear some murmured words from Antonio before the squealing sounds of tiny wheels faded into the distance.

"I, uh, should get going," Feliciano piped up, tugging on Francis' sleeve.

Francis jolted and shook his head to clear it. "Oh, of course," he replied, nodding. Then he pulled Feliciano into another hug, this time with Feliciano's tablet caught in between. "Be a good boy, now. I don't want to hear Ludwig complaining about you." A smiled stretched across his face.

"Okay." Feliciano grinned as well. Then he, too, scampered away and disappeared around the corner.

Francis watched the brown-haired boy before turning back to Arthur. The blond seemed to be still frozen, gaze staring blankly where Antonio had been. His mouth hung ajar slightly, and his hand was still raised to the height where he held Lovino's collar. Francis walked up to Arthur and opened his mouth to speak.

"Who was he?" Arthur asked, turning his head to look at Francis with wide green eyes.

"The one I talked to?" Francis asked. "He was Feliciano Vargas. He was my subordinate before you."

Arthur shook his head. "No, the other one."

"The one who bumped into you? They call him Lovino; he's a bit fiery."

He shook his head again. Then he pointed at his wrist, much like how one would point at a watch. "The one with the red wristband."

Francis laughed. "What? Are you worried that you made an enemy already?" Arthur scowled. Then, Francis slapped Arthur's back, grinning. "No worries, you just got on his bad side for a bit. He thought you were a threat. But Antonio is actually very forgiving; I'll talk to him for you and clear things up. You'll still have your chances with him." He winked.

Arthur's eyebrows knitted together. "What?"

"He'll even run up to you like a puppy and _lick_ your face!"

"_What?_" Arthur shrieked.

Francis reached around the prickling Arthur and shepherded him forward. "I'm just kidding; I'm just kidding." Then the older man paused for a moment, staring at the scowling and spiteful other. And that was when a thought popped into his head. To say that it was mischievous would be an understatement, but to say that it was entirely evil would be inaccurate. In fact, it might, in the long run, be highly beneficial. So, with a stretching grin that forcibly narrowed his eyes, Francis tugged on Arthur's hair and suggested, "Y'know, let's go meet Gilbert. I'm sure you would _adore_ him!"


	3. Law 1, Part 2

**Hello! Another update by me! This is one of my longer chapters, and it's closing in on the end of my pre-written chapters (Oh no! My reserves!) and it's another one of those preliminary chapters. Well, I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU and plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"Be less curious about people and more curious about ideas."  
—Marie Curie

"Law 1: God Save the People, Part 2"

Arthur and Francis had been walking through the BCWD corridors for two hours ever since their "chance" encounter with Antonio and Lovino. Unfortunately, to say that Arthur had enjoyed wasting his time would be a complete lie. Francis—almost literally—dragged Arthur around, from wing to wing, from room to room, to greet and chat with, quoted from Francis himself, "every lovely person we can find." And when he meant "find," he really meant it; he wasn't one of those guys who would strike up a conversation when somebody passed by. No, instead, he would stop and knock on all the doors to see if he could find anybody there to talk to. It was a horrible waste of time. In truth, Arthur would not have minded meeting with all the of the staff members; he knew quite well that it was important to establish working relationships with his colleagues. But Francis was simply excessive. If he saw anything that moved, he would trot on over and introduce Arthur to him or her. At some point, Arthur had been introduced to a few people more than one time. But Francis didn't care. He continued anyway. Clearly, there was something wrong with him.

But Francis' eccentricities didn't stop there. Oh, no, he liked taking detours too. He never went the way that would take the least amount of time to get to his destination, which in this case was Gilbert Beilschmidt's office. "Oh! Let's go this way!" Francis would say upon reaching each fork. And then when Arthur would ask why, he would beam and reply, "The journey would be more fun this way." Who the hell would do that anyway? Clearly Francis would. Maybe he was lost and was covering up the fact that he was randomly choosing paths. But that would have been unlikely, since Francis would also point at each door and say what or who was usually behind it. However that didn't stop them from going through the same hallways over and over again.

Finally, Francis stopped at a door, grinning as if it was a novelty item. But Arthur swore that he had seen it before. The hallway may have been nearly the same as all the others in the building, and the door was made of the same, dark metal as the rest. Luckily this one had a distinct quality that pulled it away from the others. A silver plate was nailed the door and labelled the office, "Self-Defence Sector Head." Yep, Arthur immediately knew that they had seen the door before.

Gesturing, Francis whispered, "And this is Gilbert Beilschmidt's office."

Arthur sputtered. "We've passed this door three times already!"

Francis held out his hands and patted the air. "Shh, shh, I know," he hissed back, "so be quiet. I thought that the office was too close so I wanted to take another way."

Outraged, Arthur shouted, "Why the hell did you do that?"

"Because I could." Francis sidled up to the door and knocked on the door. Then with a voice bumped up several octaves, he called, "Gilbert? This is Eliza."

There was a pause. Francis ushered Arthur over. The younger rolled his eyes, crossed his arms and then walked closer to the other.

"Francis, I know it's you," a gruff voice permeated through the metal. "I'm not falling for the trick again."

"Trick? What trick?" Francis sniggered, still talking in an up-pitched voice. He glanced at his companion, but the intern only glared back. Obviously, Arthur thought the behaviour immature. Who would dare act like that in a professional environment?

"Francis, you can come in."

The long-haired man sighed, falling back to his normal tone. "Ah, mon ami, where did your sense of fun go?" As he jabbered, he brought an arm around Arthur and opened the door, and the two walked inside.

If the office were to be described in one word, it would be "clean." Or it could be called "plain" as well, but that would not be the better adjective. The blue-green tiled floor was relatively shiny and it reflected the lights from the ceiling, although the highlights were corrupted by the amount of scratches on the wax. A large black and white—the colour was turning a bit grey due to people stepping all over it—rug was placed in the middle of the room and in front of the large desk that stood before a large window that spanned one whole side of the room. Bookshelves of uniform heights lined up against the other sides that were not occupied by either the door or the few empty frames. And that was about all there was to the room. So, the lack of décor in the room would have contributed to why the office looked so clean. It was not because it was organised: Sure, there were no random papers scattered around the floor and nothing seemed to be out of place, but on closer inspection, papers and books were cast disorderly on the large desk and various bookshelves. Nor was the room immaculate: A significant amount of grainy rocks dirtied the floor. Instead, the simplicity might have brought around the clean feeling of the room. The amount of near nothing made it impossible for anything to feel out of place.

And maybe the simplicity was why the man behind the desk stood out so much. He was extraordinarily pale; his near white skin, platinum blond hair, and tinted blue eyes contrasted against his dark blue and black military uniform and hat decorated with a silver star. He almost appeared to be a ghost of a soldier. And everything about him seemed angular: His facial structure was thin and defined; his eyes and smile were formed with points at the ends; the way he sat with his crossed legs resting on the desk and dark, knee-high boots dirtying the papers was almost sharp, as if every joint in his body was knobbly and completely incapable of grace; even his gloved fingers seemed stiff and hinged. In truth, he would have appeared to be a scary man if he had a little less meat and muscle on him. In their place, the rifle in his hands did all the intimidation. The barrel was a dark silver colour, and the handle was made of a brown metal that almost mocked the appearance of wood. Along the side of the gun, golden letters that almost blended into the weapon's colouration unless the light reflected off of them labelled it the "Black Eagle." Obviously, due to its pretty designs, "The Black Eagle" was used solely for ceremonial purposes, but it certainly was still lethal. The man was playing with two of the mechanisms in the back of the gun, loading and unloading it with a packet of small bullets with the quick flow of his fingers and flipping a bayonet in and out. And Arthur could barely see a few more mechanisms as well, and he could guarantee that they were all for killing purposes. So the gun could still do its job.

"Bonjour, Gilbert!" Francis shouted. His arms were wide open as he walked up to Gilbert. "How are you doing today?"

Gilbert smiled up at Francis and shifted in his seat, bringing his legs off the desk. "Hey, hey, watch the gun." He placed the rifle and the packet of bullets on the flat surface. Then he brought his arms up before returning Francis hug. Afterwards, he let go and slapped Francis on the back. "Seems like you're doing well."

"Of course! I am still as beautiful as I was yesterday." Francis chuckled. He returned the friendly gesture by patting his friend on the back, and then turned to face back at Arthur, who remained standing before the door with a large scowl on his face. A hand stretched out at the youngest man and the corners of Francis' mouth turned up and out a bit more. "Now, I'm sure you haven't met him yet. He's Arthur Kirkland, my new subordinate."

Arthur lifted a hand to give a limp wave towards Gilbert.

"Oh, you mean the smarty scholarship one?" Gilbert asked, cackling and glancing between Arthur and Francis. "He looks a lot less nerdy than I had expected."

Francis flipped his hair over his shoulder. "Of course. He might actually be my type."

"What?" Arthur screeched.

"Hmm, but he might be a little bit pricklier than you can handle," Gilbert remarked. "I thought you're fonder of those quiet people, like Lili."

"Ah, but I love everybody," Francis sighed with a hand on his heart. "Lili is amongst the best to spend your time with, but a man needs variety."

Arthur could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Oh, speaking of Lili, have you heard about her new assignment?" Gilbert's eyes moved away from Arthur to look up at Francis. "Her post will be in the Eastern Branch, Sector 234 of Area 2 for a year."

Francis' eyes widened a bit and he tilted his head a little to the side, much like a curious bird looking at strange movement. "Really? That's awfully far; Vash will be devastated."

"Yeah, I know."

Slowly, Arthur calmed down, letting out a long exhale. The two older men's probing attention was off of him, so he could relax. Already Arthur had a very bad impression on Francis, who dared to say that Arthur was anywhere close to being a good target for flirting, and his friends, who probably were no better than he. However, Arthur felt he could not run out of the room and leave the other two to their devices, despite being quite tempted to do so. The act constituted to abandonment and was rude towards his two superiors. In addition, it went against his chivalrous principles, which he took great pride in. Arthur would do nothing he deemed damaging to his ego and his dignity. As a result, he decided to wait out his superiors' conversation and wander around the room.

Arthur immediately went to the bookshelves. Anything with pages and covers attracted his attention. Throughout his life, books had kept him better company than all of his siblings combined. They had taught him almost all the science he needed to pass BCWD's exams, from the cell cycle to quantum physics. And they had kept him entertained when he couldn't do anything else like when his brother wouldn't allow him outside because of a failing grade. In truth, Arthur would have gone nowhere without his beloved books. So it was only natural that he would go look at the books first.

His fingers ran down the spines of the books, bumping along. A few of the volumes lacked titles, but it was clear that, with titles such as "The Campaigns of Napoleon," the majority were about historical documents about battle strategies. A few of them were textbooks of countries, such as the United States and Germany. And of course, a handful was about famous empires back in the day, such as the Ancient Roman Empire and Alexander the Great's Empire.

"Hey, is something on your mind?" Francis asked. "Going to miss Lili?"

"Hmm… No, it's nothing like that." There was a small click. Gilbert must be fiddling with the mechanisms on his rifle again. "I'm just wondering if I should return this to him or not."

"He certainly won't be using it at any time. I don't think he will care if he had a gun. Shouldn't you keep it?"

Arthur started straightening the books, slamming some of them into the walls of the shelves in order to make room for others that were on their sides. That way, he wasn't eavesdropping on other people's conversations. It wasn't any of his business and he certainly didn't care anyway. Arthur was merely demonstrating a brand of common courtesy. However he was making quite a bit of noise. But it seemed that Gilbert and Francis didn't mind; they kept talking, and as long as they didn't complain, then Arthur would continue.

Then something caught his eye. Arthur paused and scooted himself to two shelves over, straightening the bottom most books as he went. In a dark corner was a face-down picture frame. It lay in front of a book called _The Iron Kingdom_ by Christopher Clark. It was a simple little thing, with only wooden borders and a cork backing and stand, which was folded down. Dust had covered the back, hinting that it hadn't been touched for quite a long time. Arthur picked it up and looked at a photo of an old man.

"A siege?" Gilbert laughed. "That's unlikely. Those idiots kept the World Domain vital networks a secret, even to themselves. They know where the capital is, but they don't know which area to attack, or if the networks' centre is even in the capital. I think they will continue to try and land somewhere on the shore and attempt to make a sweep that way. And even if they try to get past the borders, our SR-102's will shoot them down, like always."

"But you have to remember. This is a war with the world. You never know what will happen."

There was a long sigh. "Francis, you forget that this is no longer twentieth century warfare. It's a slaughter, and we're _winning_."

The old man was in a dark blue uniform: The coat had four large pockets, empty of anything; a black belt wrapped around his hip; a sash reached to his right shoulder from the belt buckle; baggy, blue pants of an almost green hue were tucked into knee-high, brown boots. The man wasn't in full dress, but he certainly acted like he was, with his chin up, shoulders back, chest out and feet together. A decorated rifle, gilded with the words "Black Eagle," rested against his shoulder, its butt resting in one of the man's gloved hands and its barrel reaching past his head. The other hand was pulled up into a stiff salute, fingers close to the rim of a dark blue hat adorned with one large, silver star. Framed by white hair tied into a loose ponytail by a blue bow, the drawn, wrinkled face was set into a hard expression. His mouth was stretched back into a flat line, and the two bright blue eyes stared straight into the camera.

To Arthur, the man seemed to be a veteran who had decided to wear his old uniform out of nostalgia. But as Arthur continued to stare, the former soldier seemed familiar. Arthur had a hard time seeing the whole face due to the wispy hair and the rim of the hat. But there was something about it that tipped Arthur off. The cheekbones weren't prominent, and the cheeks, despite being ridged by wrinkles, were round, curling towards the wide chin. The nose was round but small, and prominent wrinkles ran from the outermost sides of the nostrils and down to the corners of the mouth. But there seemed to be something wrong with that. The edges of the mouth curled up a bit. It could have been an illusion or a blur in the photograph, but it softened the image of a cold soldier.

Slowly, Arthur's gaze travelled down to the bottom of the frame. A small, yellow plate was nailed into the wood, and with carved words, it said "Frederick Hohenzollern." And he immediately realised who the man was and what he did.

"He's awesome, isn't he?"

Arthur jolted and looked up. Gilbert was leaning against his desk next to Francis, his hand on the rifle resting on the wooden surface. A large grin was spread on his face, and his eyes sparkled.

"You mean Hohenzollern?" Arthur asked.

"Who else?"

Arthur paused and stared at the photograph again. Then he looked back up at Gilbert again, frowning. "Wasn't he the one who started the war?"

Gilbert laughed. "No, the other countries started the war. He had suggested that we declare independent. And when we did, everybody else had freaked out and declared war on us."

Furrowing his brows, Arthur looked back down at the picture of the man. "Nevertheless, he is still a fool."

Suddenly, Gilbert's expression turned dark and he ground his teeth into an almost feral growl. His back arched into a hunch. He took a step forward, sliding his fingers along the table. "Don't you ever _dare_ say something like that again. Never _ever_ tarnish the Hohenzollern name. _You_ may think he was the commander who 'declared war on the world,' but you clearly do _not_ realise how beneficial it is for _everyone else._"

In retaliation, Arthur growled back, "Oh, yeah? So people shooting each other is 'beneficial' to everyone? If you ask me, the very fact that there is _slaughter_ outside the World Domain"—he gestured outside the window—"is negative wherever you go! People are dying out there, and you say it's 'beneficial'? BCWD is a _medical_ facility; it's supposed to be saving people with medicine, not _kill_ everyone off with firearms!"

Gilbert waved a finger at Arthur, scowling and grinding his teeth together. He opened his mouth for a retort, but instead, he shut his mouth again and stomped right over to Arthur. The intern stumbled onto his feet in order to stand at the same level as Gilbert. But Arthur was a good few centimetres shorter than Gilbert was, even with his thick-soled shoes. So the only good that Arthur standing up did was allowing Gilbert to easily wrench Arthur by the collar and top pull Arthur right up to his face. "I see you just don't understand anything at all, do you?" Gilbert hissed. "Let me tell you this, kid, because I see that you're too _stupid_ to realise it: Research requires resources. And we're _limited_ of those by the old school thought of ethics and religion."

"Liar," Arthur leered. "The World Domain was made specifically so we're not limited by your so-called 'old school thought.' So how can war 'not limit' us? If you ask me, we're even more 'limited' _because_ we're in war; before we are always funded by others, but now nobody is willing to fund us anything."

"It's _because_ we're at war that we can get anything we want. We don't need to ask for funding anymore; instead, we just take whatever we need—courtesy to Frederick Hohenzollern, of course." Gilbert shook Arthur, bouncing the head against the bookshelf once. Arthur's vision blotched up a bit upon impact, but his recovery came swift and easy. "You wouldn't accomplish _half_ of your assignments without the war going on." Gilbert's gruff voice lowered into a hiss similar to the sound of a doused flame. "You're luckier than most other interns before you, y'know. Some of your predecessors _begged_ for World Domain independence."

The blond intern opened his mouth to snap something back. However, before he could say anything, Gilbert let go and shoved Arthur towards Francis, who was standing in front of Gilbert's desk. Francis had not moved an inch, and he merely watched Gilbert and Arthur with a neutral expression, making no attempt to stop the two men's argument. All he did was holding out a hand in case Arthur stumbled forward.

"Francis, you have your work cut out for you," Gilbert said. "We have an idealist on our hands, and God knows how much I hate idealists."

"But Feliciano was an idealist," Francis replied.

Gilbert rolled his eyes, walking around the desk and sliding his fingers along the barrel of his gun. "At least he wasn't a dreamer too." Then he waved at them, much like how a superior would wave off his troublesome subordinates. "Now, go away. I don't have time for this; I have work to do."

Francis sighed. "All right." He walked up to Arthur and held onto his arm. He took the picture frame from Arthur's hands, folded the stand down, and placed it face-down on a shelf, the one that it wasn't on before. "Let's go." And without even saying a small farewell and with his head bowed slightly, Francis ushered Arthur out of the office and closed the door behind him. Only when there was a small click did Francis let out a sigh and lift his head to look back at Arthur.

Still in a bad mood, Arthur's scowl deepened. "What was _his_ problem?" he spat out, saying the words with the utmost spite.

Francis kept a hand on Arthur's shoulder and the two began walking away from the Beilschmidt office. "Nah, we just caught him at a bad time. He may not seem like it, but he's very dedicated to his work and keeps very high standards." They took the first turn in the corridor and walked alongside a large span of windows on the left. "But don't worry! You're new! I'm going to teach you everything you need to know about BCWD, and you'll be up and over Gil's standards and he'll come to like you, just like how he came to like little Feliciano after a while."

Arthur scoffed. "I don't need him to like me. It's not like I'll work as his subordinate; a few enemies here and there aren't too bad either."

"Now that's a bad attitude! It'll get you killed someday." Francis smiled and patted the other's shoulder. "Here, I think you've made enough enemies today; let's go meet Sadık. He's really good with children, so there'd be no way you two would get at each other's throats."

"Are you _implying_ something?" Arthur growled through gritted teeth.

The older man chuckled and shook his head. "No, nothing." He brought Arthur closer to him as they continued down the long and spanning corridors.

This time, Francis didn't seem to be taking detours. The histrionic gestures, announcer voice, and the ever-obnoxious "Hey, let's go that way!" were gone, replaced by a relative silence. He didn't even swivel around to burst through doors and strike up a conversation with anybody whom he happened to see. Instead he turned corners without a single hesitation or comment and stuck to a short greeting to anybody who happened by. Although Arthur was quite satisfied that he wasn't going to waste time doing unnecessary things, he almost felt like there was a lack of confidence in Francis' steps. The detours were made only to frustrate Arthur, and when they were employed, that meant Francis knew enough of the layout of the building to trick and mislead people while also keeping them on track towards the destination. Those who were only vaguely familiar with the pathways would have never been able to map out a route that would not only give a sense of being lost but also still bring the person to the destination. So with the deviations gone, Arthur could not help himself from thinking that Francis was lost. And with his natural disposition to not trust Francis, Arthur was almost tempted to conclude that they really were lost.

But on they went, and Arthur did not say a word that would hint Francis of his distrust. The hallways were extraordinarily plain, lacking all decorations that would act as a landmark for a poor, lost fellow. The only things that would hint that someone was going anywhere at all were the views outside, which were as boring as the white walls that lined the corridors, and the signs that labelled the designated purposes for particular rooms or offices. So other than those things, everything seemed the same, with uniform bluish-green tiles, speckled board ceiling, and faint overhead lights. As such, there was nothing interesting to look at. Everything was boring in the hallways and, suddenly, Arthur wanted something else to do. But of course, he would never admit that. It would distract him from his goal and he would become something a little like Francis, wasting time that he didn't have.

Eventually they arrived to the front desk. Francis waved at the receptionist and blew her a kiss. And then, he pushed the front door open and the two men walked out.

A burst of colours immediately overwhelmed Arthur. The outdoors contrasted against the stark ambience of the indoors, shining with more than anything construction work could make. The sunlight was raw and pure, no longer weakened by slightly tinted windows. And with the bright lighting, everything stood out more. But it wasn't in competitive way and didn't drown out any single feature. Instead there was some sort of harmony, much like how a meadow of flowers appeared uniform yet different at every turn. The individual features had become some sort of blur, but that didn't take away any uniqueness from each one. Of course, this wasn't the outdoors in its full glory. The air was unfiltered due to a lack of ventilation and held some sort of heavy dryness to it. And a slight burning scent had drowned out any possibility of freshness typical to the outdoors. And the black of the tar road, the grey of the stone sidewalk and the white of the buildings looked off when placed with the green of the grass, the blue of the sky, and the yellow of the dandelions. But that was okay. Well, as far as Arthur's senses went.

He really liked nature. Now, he didn't know if Francis would agree, but he felt that it was amongst the best things of the world. It was a mysterious thing, just waiting to be analysed, dissected and understood. Arthur felt that the sole purpose in life was to find out about everything in the world he was living in. This quest for the world's knowledge was the only one worth embarking on. And it was, of course, the one Arthur looked into the most. Why? Because in there was science. Nature was science. As Arthur would learn about it all, he would come to discover ways to manipulate things. He would tame it. So then the world would be a better place. And then life would have an even higher standard. And that was his goal ever since he was a child. Yes, it was a lofty goal, but one worth striving for.

Arthur and Francis approached a large building across the road from where they came. It was much bigger than the other—which was saying something—with its wider box-like structure and multiple levels. Despite its size, it wasn't anything magnificent and was certainly nothing interesting to look at. The architecture was plain, built for practicality rather than looks. It was basically a large block pasted into the earth; the sides were straight except for the sills below rows and rows of windows, and the top edges suggested an even flatter roof. And above the entrance, where an overhang jutted out of this massive metal-cement brick, were enlarged metallic letters, announcing to the world that the building was called "The BCWD Hospital and Medical Research Centre." So, basically, if its boring architecture did not already announce its stereotypically practical purposes, then the large sign would. But despite its unappealing and dull nature, Arthur could not help himself from looking up at the building with amazement and admiration. There was simply something about the word _research_ that would send him into a spiral of frenzied wonder.

"We're here," Francis said. He walked up to the entrance, leaving Arthur to his own devices, as he fished through his pockets, pulled out a wallet, and then took a card out. The door, despite being as plain as the rest, was unique in that it was reflective. No, it did not simply reflect light, but it also reflected images, much like what a mirror did. That gave the door a delicate look, as if it was made out of glass. But anyone would realise that it was not the case. No fool would make a door out of complete glass. Instead, like many mirrors, it was made of reflective metals, such as silver. But silver, of course, was not durable. Then it must have been some other metal, but that would never be disclosed since the World Domain was such a secretive society. But there must have been a few layers it, for when Francis slid his card in a small device stuck to the top of the door, a small keyboard slid out. Then he typed in a pin, and the door flashed with a green light in a design much like a computer chip's and slid open.

"Come on," Francis called over his shoulder and waved Arthur to follow.

The younger looked back down and trotted after his superior and into the building.

The hospital structure was much like the one of the building they had been in before. The ceiling was still made of speckled boards, the overhead lights were faint, and the floor tiles were still bluish-green and scratched. However, there were distinguishing features as well. The air, somehow, came off as even fresher than the air outside. Sure, there was a faint scent of dusty ventilation and caustic antibiotics, but it was still predominantly clear. And the walls weren't just a plain white plaster. Instead, they were of a plastic variety, capable of reflecting the faint light overhead to give an illusion of more lighting. And at times, a faint blue glow travelled along the walls like a tiny train passing by. The area branched off into three wings. At each juncture, two large, metal boxes stood out of the walls, holding some things that, like the mechanisms of the door, would not be disclosed. On the side of the corridor that led forward, a woman sat on a rickety, blue chair reading some sort of backwards book and eating rice and vegetables from a compartmented box.

The woman wore a military uniform, much similar in structure to the one that Gilbert was seen wearing moments before. She was obviously a soldier, but one of a lower rank as Gilbert, for her clothes were a dirty green and she lacked the strap that went from her belt to her shoulder. And unlike Gilbert, she was darker with nicely tanned skin—probably from being outside—and rounder, appearing more like a palpable person than Gilbert could ever be. Her wavy, brown hair was long, reaching below the middle of her back. That was quite strange for a soldier, since hair that long usually caught on things, so it signalled that she had seen peace for a significantly long time. And her eye colour was easy to identify, even at a distance because of how bright the green was and how wide her eyes were while she read her book.

"Enjoying that book?" Francis asked.

The woman absentmindedly stabbed a meatball with her fork and brought it to her mouth. "You bet," she replied with her mouth full, keeping the fork between her teeth. "You can borrow it when I'm done." Her large green eyes finally looked up and she smiled at Francis. Then her gaze travelled towards Arthur and stared with widening eyes. The fork started slipping out of her gaping mouth.

The woman clambered to her feet. The book and lunch box both clattered to the ground, either snapping closed or spilling rice, respectively. Her heels snapped together and her right hand went to her forehead while the other stayed stiffly to her side. She was standing at full attention with her green eyes narrowing and staring out straight ahead. "Elizaveta Edelstein: HQ Base Special Force, Unit 2, Rank 7.342; wife and bodyguard of Dr. Roderick Edelstein!" she shouted. "I had _not_ been reading on the job!"

Arthur raised one bushy eyebrow. He looked over to Francis and then back to Elizaveta, as if he had witnessed a strange ritual dance from an unknown specie.

Whereas Arthur did not know what to think, Francis laughed. "Don't worry, Eli. He's not an inspector." An arm reached over and wrapped around Arthur's head, bringing the other closer. "He's my new student, Arthur Kirkland!"

Eli let out a loud groan, sagging over with her arms limp. "Seriously? So I worried for nothing? I even spilt my food for you!"

"Then I'm honoured that you lost some food over us."

"Well, you better be. It was a gift from Kiku!" The woman knelt down and gathered up the box and book. She then placed them on her seat and cleaned up the rice with a napkin from her back pocket. "So what brings you here?"

"I'm introducing Artie here to Sadık." Arthur scowled and pushed Francis away.

Eli shot a disgusted look at Francis. "Him? Seriously? You give him too much attention." She looked back at her mess and folded the napkin to slip it back into her pocket. "You'll bloat his inflatable ego if you keep that up, you know."

Francis laughed. "He's just good company; that's all."

Eli scoffed and shook her head. "More like very bad company, if you ask me." Then she stood up, grunting, "Well, you probably won't be seeing him around as often anymore. The sedative stocks are going low, so he's swamped by usage reports and permission slips."

"Well, that's unfortunate. Where is he anyway?"

The woman picked up her food and book. "I think he's still in Safety Room 42 over there." A thumb jerked over her shoulder, pointing the way down the hallway behind her. Then she plopped back down onto her seat and wiped off her fork. "You know how he is. Now, go. I have some reading to do." She placed her lunch box onto her lap and started flipping to where she had left off.

"All right, thanks, Eli." Francis patted Arthur's shoulder again and said, "Come on, let's go." The intern grumbled some gibberish and then the two walked in the direction Eli had pointed. As Francis passed by, he patted Eli's shoulder. "Enjoy the book."

"Mm…" was all Eli replied with. The fork was hanging out of her mouth again, and she resumed her position she had been in before Francis and Arthur had entered the building and disturbed her.

Francis paused for a second, looking over his shoulder at Eli. A smile crept on his face and he waved at the entrance door. "Oh, hey, Vash, what're you doing here?"

Eli clambered back on her feet and saluted. "Elizaveta Edelstein, HQ Base Special Force, Unit 2, Rank 7.342, and wife and bodyguard of Dr. Roderick Edelstein, reporting for duty, sir!" And once more, the book, lunch box, and fork clattered onto the ground.

And then Francis laughed and ushered himself and Arthur down the hallway.

There was a moment of silence. Eli slowly slipped from her salute and glanced around. Then a loud shriek of rage and frustration echoed along the walls. "I hate you, Francis Bonnefoy!"

Arthur glared at Francis with one eyebrow arching like a stretching ferret. "Don't you think that was a bit cruel?" he asked.

Francis shrugged. "She was almost asking for it; she knows that she shouldn't be reading on the job. Besides, wasn't it a good laugh?"

Arthur huffed and rolled his eyes. Obviously Francis had a horrible sense of humour. There was nothing funny about ruining somebody's lunch and reading time. In fact Arthur took some pity on poor Eli. The food in the lunch box looked delectable. The prospect of losing any of it sounded devastating. And being an avid reader himself, he knew too well that disturbing somebody's readings produced an unreasonable ire in a person and would destroy the flow of a good story. Additionally Eli's job seemed boring. She was on guard duty with nothing to do other than waste her precious time staring at a door that might never be broken down. Of course Arthur knew that she needed to be on her toes throughout her whole shift. But boredom killed, and with nothing going on, her alertness would have died much faster than if she were reading her beloved books, whatever the content was.

And that was his reasoning. But he would never speak up about that.

The two men passed quite a few rooms, going from room 40 to room 69 before going up an elevator to rooms 340 to 369. Like in the main building, everything was relatively uniform. The walls were like the walls of the first floor: white and plastic. The floor and the ceiling were as boring as others. At some of the corners, there were the same grey boxes they had seen earlier. The doors were all of dark metal and had a shiny plate with numbers and codes nailed into them. And after every two or three doors, there would be a large window that allowed the full view of a room. A majority of these windows were shuttered with metal blinds, but a few of them were not, revealing wide rooms with no occupants. The rooms were all rather plain, fitting for a hospital. They each contained only two or three beds, a few small desks and chairs, one cabinet, and a little stall for, presumably, bathroom purposes. And if a room was on the right side, a large window was carved out the wall, letting the sunlight in.

Then Francis turned a corner and dragged Arthur with him. They were in what seemed like a dead-end. But off to the side, there stood a large door much different from the ones in the rest of the building. It was much like the door that guarded the entrance of the whole hospital: It was made of a few layers of a mysterious metal and acted much like a mirror. Beside the door was a little box with a button. And next to that was a shuttered window, which was rather small when compared to the rest. Underneath that, a plate was attached to a wall, labelling the room as "Safety Room 42."

The older man leant over towards the box and held the button down. There was a moment of static coming from the top and then Francis spoke, "Hey, Sadık, it's Francis." He let go of the button.

A deep voice fizzled in response. "Oh, hey, Francis, you can come in. I already set it to allow member access."

Francis reached into his pocket and pulled out the same card he had used before. Since Arthur stood right beside Francis this time, Arthur was able to see what was on the card. On the back was a thick line, one that was usually seen on cards. And underneath the line, a few fine print words were written, probably telling some terms of use or possession. Then Francis flipped it over and Arthur was able to see the other side. A large blue line ran across where the black line had been and the words "Buchen Centre of the World Domain" were printed in heavy purple. A photo of Francis' face was on the left side underneath the word "Buchen." In the remaining free space, a profile told any reader about the man. His rank, "Assimilation Officer SER," was also written as part of the profile, but it was in a larger font so Arthur could read it. Then Francis swiped the card along the side of the intercom box, again setting off glowing lights in the metal before the door slid open.

Four people sat on the floor of the room, which appeared much like a playroom for kindergarteners since it contained many colourful toys and large picture books. Three of people were children—one, a toddler, and two around the ages of five and six—and one was a large man. The toddler was a little boy with crew-cut hair; dark skin; large, brown eyes; chubby, little cheeks; grubby hands; and all of his teeth except for one of his incisors on the top. He was dressed in a type of robe with a striped red and yellow sash and brown belt. Obviously, with its long sleeves and nightgown appearance, it had been a hand-me-down intended for easy dressing. But nobody was going to complain. One of the other children had a tired, lackadaisical look to him: drooping eyelids, blurry green eyes, slow movements, jerking nods, and the constant yawning. His brown hair was naturally wavy, but the way that some of the locks shot out randomly suggested a serious bed-head. He wore a stained, white T-shirt and baggy pants with huge pockets, which he kept reaching into but pulling out nothing. The other child was taller, probably older, and had a significantly less amount of baby fat. He wore something similar to a tunic: An oversized T-shirt draped over his body and was tied around the waist by a piece of yarn. He was also darker in skin tone when compared to the other two children in the room, and his hair border-lined into black. His eyes were a strange hazel colour, one that mixed green and brown, and his mouth seemed to be sewn into a tight, straight line.

The adult in the room was the strangest of all. He was obviously an employee: The apparel of the lab coat and scrubs made that clear; if not, then identification card hanging around his neck from a lanyard. But that wasn't what made him stand out of the rest. A white ceramic mask obscured half of his face, going over most of his forehead and over the bridge of the nose. Not many people would wear a mask, especially in a hospital. It made the wearer appear suspicious as it hid the identity. And in this way, he looked like a potential murderer, and his muscular build didn't help plead his innocence. But somehow, the man sufficiently seemed to dispel the negative first impression. The rough hair on the top of his head and light stubble on his chin gave him a rather fatherly look, softening his defined chin and his skull structure. And his wide smile made him appear a bit goofy, but it brightened his overall expression despite the blank appearance from the mask.

"You guys came at the right time! I have to leave to pick up my new assignment in a bit," the adult said. His voice sounded much deeper than when it crackled out from outside, but there seemed to be a funky rise and fall of tone at the end of his words. Then he turned his head to look directly at Arthur. The shadows produced by the eyeholes were dark, so Arthur couldn't see the eyes, and that frightened him. But as the tiny toddler crawled onto his lap, the feeling became diluted. "So, he's your new lackey, right? He definitely looks green around those ears."

Francis laughed. "Almost everyone he meets always says that." He and Arthur walked into the room as the door closed behind them. "Arthur does have the newbie look," Francis observed, draping his arm over Arthur's shoulders. Arthur's scowl deepened. Whether it was because of the physical contact or because of the "newbie" comment, nobody would know.

"So Arthur Kirkland, right? The name's Sadık. Sadık Adnan." The man patted the toddler's head, which was tilted up to stare at the strange, blond men. "This li'l guy is İhsan." Then he pointed at the older two who weren't sitting far from him: First, the sleepy one, and then the older. "And he's Heracles, and the other is Gupta." From the ground, the large man reached up for a handshake. Although he would not be looking at Arthur from eye level, he didn't move an inch from his spot for the toddler was still on his lap. "It's nice to meet you."

Arthur inched closer to Sadık. His footsteps came out more as a shuffle than anything else, and he reached out a hand that strained itself to reach the other's hand. "It's… It's nice to meet you too," he said, taking Sadık's calloused hand.

"Oh, come on, buddy! You better work on your handshake!" Sadık gave Arthur's hand a stern shake before Arthur could quickly retract. Then he turned to look at Francis. "Hey, is your subordinate always this shy?"

Francis sat down with a grunt. "Shy? You should have seen earlier today! He's the snarkiest thing you can find!"

"Really?" Sadık said, sounding sceptical. The grin on his face became an open-mouthed frown as he looked at Arthur. Because of the mask, he looked impersonal, like a computer analysing a specimen. Arthur knew that if Sadık had been the one who interviewed him upon applying for internship, he would be unable to answer questions. But then Sadık smiled again and he held up the toddler from the armpits, much like how one would hold up a four-legged pet. "It must be the children!"

İhsan stared up at Arthur with a monotonous expression: foggy, blank eyes and triangle-shaped mouthed. The baby was absolutely unreadable. Whether he was suspicious or fond of Arthur or anything at all would require extensive brain-testing. Nevertheless, Arthur reached out and took İhsan into his hands. And he stared. Well, both of them did.

"Great!" Then Sadık pointed at both Francis and Arthur with one hand. "I'll trust that you two will take care of these guys for me when I'm gone."

As Sadık stood up, Francis asked, "Where are you going?"

"I have to pick up my new patient. They say that the subject was a handful for one of the branches." The large man brought his arms over his head and stretched. "Went on a rampage and killed five people and wounded fifteen—both other subjects and staff members. So they decided that this good ol' man in HQ should take care of 'im."

Francis arched an eyebrow. "That sounds dangerous. Name? History?"

"They call him Ivan Braginski. From a Russian prison after slaughtering 25 attendees at a party. Mentally unstable and capable of violent tantrums." Francis frowned in disapproval and Arthur shot a shocked look over İhsan's head, but Sadık merely shrugged. "I'm used to it. But hey, you can always come around and help me sometime. Get you some credits for the kid's internship." Then he straightened his coat and moved his lanyard into his pants pocket. "Now I best be going. Take care of these brats for me. And you…" He turned and glared down at Heracles, who was still nodding off. "You better behave."

The child looked up and blinked wearily. "Damn old man," Heracles droned.

Sadık's expression changed into an outraged one. He bent down and grabbed the boy's cheeks and stretched them until they were shaped into something similar to an American football. Heracles whined a little, screwing his eyes shut. And Sadık growled, "Why you little…!"

But he let go and stopped. His angered look fell and he straightened up. A large hand went up to his ear. "What's wrong, pipsqueak?"

During that pause while Sadık waited for a response, everybody stared at him. The sudden change in Sadık's mood seemed a bit off. It was obvious that he was talking into some sort of communication device placed near his ear, and something that was said had taken most, if not all, of Sadık's attention. And the device was probably top-notch as well, for there was not a mutter coming from it. The corner of Sadık's mouth twitched, just enough that even Arthur, the unskilled people-watcher, would notice. The movement must have been in response to the words only Sadık could hear, but what variety of reaction it would associate to left Arthur wondering.

"I'll be right there." Then Sadık's hand left his ear and slipped into his pocket. In a rush, he trotted past Arthur and walked up to the door. "Sorry guys, got to run now before somebody's soul gets beaten out of their heads." He shot an apologetic smile back and pressed a red button beside the exit and the door slid open. "Better stay here until I move the cargo up into the new room. I'll see you guys later!" With that, the scientist dashed out.

The door closed behind him, and a sort of dead silence followed after.

Arthur knitted his eyebrows together and scowled. "Does that mean we have to take care of children until Sadık gives his say-so?" he asked.

"Aw, but these kiddies are well-behaved," Francis replied. He stretched over and patted one of Heracles' reddening cheeks. The boy did not move from his spot and continued to nod off again. "They're really quiet and aren't prone to causing a ruckus. Sadık just wants us to keep an eye on them because he dotes on them." Then he looked at Gupta. The eldest of the children was sitting a distance away from the others, having kept silent ever since Arthur first looked at him. "Isn't that right, Gupta?" Francis asked.

The boy picked up a little plastic container and held it up. "Pot," he said.

Francis chuckled. "Yes, pot." Then he looked back up at Arthur and patted a spot on the ground beside him. "See? They're well-behaved. It's not like a normal day-care."

Arthur glared down at the spot for a moment. He didn't want to sit next to Francis, and God knew what was on that carpet. But he slowly sat himself down with İhsan on his lap anyway. The toddler made no move while Arthur plopped down, staring at the white wall before looking up at the ceiling. The behaviour was not of any Arthur had seen in a child before. Sure, he didn't spend most of his time with children, but the blank expressions on the three were not anything he had heard before. Normally, eyes would be wide and bright, staring at everything with a curiosity and petty arrogance. So Arthur asked, "Then how are they so well-behaved?"

"Can't tell you." Francis leant back onto his hands and crossed his legs. "All I will say is that they're under Sadık's care."

"Then what department is he in?"

"He's in the Humane Control. He takes care of some experimental subjects and staff members, but since he's just a RLR, he mainly deals with monitoring behaviour, sedation, and taking care of some patients and assignments."

"RLR?"

Francis looked over at Gupta and gestured the boy over. The child stood up and walked over, holding the pot in his hands. "RLR is one of the lower ranks of the department hierarchy. Since he's a bit of a multitasker, taking on all sectors of his department and on top of being an assimilation officer, he can't go any higher than that. But that's title only; everybody treats him as an SEP. Even his superiors bow down to him."

Gupta plopped down and stared. "Pot," he repeated. Francis reached over and patted the boy's head.

"You're an SEP, right?"

"You saw my card?" Francis reached back into his pocket, pulled out his identification and tossed it over to Arthur. "But I'm just an assimilation officer. The only benefit that comes out of it is that I can wander through other departments and help out."

Arthur looked down at the thin plastic. Obviously, it did not change from the last time he looked at it. So he went straight to the brief profile printed onto it:

_Name: Francis Bonnefoy  
__Gender: Male  
__Age: 29  
__Birthday: 14 July 2190  
__Height: 175 cm  
__Hair Colour: Blond  
__Eye Colour: Blue  
__Wife: Jeanne Bonnefoy_

And underneath that were the bolded words, "Assimilation Officer SEP" again. But, in print so fine that Arthur nearly missed it, the card continued, "For those who require special attention. Current Protégé: Arthur Kirkland." Those last few words seemed to be like a spear through his pride. He was offended. Who the hell thought he needed special attention? Arthur Kirkland was a bloody genius; he didn't need any special help in his internship. His grades were perfect; his work ethic was phenomenal; his skills were of those that appear only once every decade. Was that why he hated Francis' condescending ways? Was it because Francis was used to "slower" people who needed more time to learn? And he wasn't used to fast learners like Arthur? And Arthur wasn't used to those more babying teachers? Arthur didn't belong to a group of students who need "extra help" to learn or become a great scientist. In fact, he didn't even need teachers like Francis! So, why?

Arthur placed his finger underneath those words and held the card up to Francis' face. "Mr. Bonnefoy, what is the meaning of this?"

Francis blinked and squinted at the words. "Oh, that's just part of my job. I take care of those who require special attention before they become full staff members." He smiled.

One of Arthur's large eyebrows twitched. Was Francis seriously treating him like an idiot? He knew that already. "No, but why am I in the 'require special attention' category? I don't need some stupid 'special attention'!"

The older man peered over the card and at Arthur. "Yes, you do," he replied. "Why are you joining BCWD?"

The intern was taken aback for a moment. "I… I want to perfect society. I want to save lives and humanity. By joining BCWD."

The card was plucked from Arthur's hands. "And that's why you require special attention." Francis stuffed the card back into pocket and turned back to look at Arthur. "You don't know the main concept of BCWD, and you need to take it to heart."

Arthur's hand fell. Blue eyes seemed to harden. Francis suddenly appeared older than he was. "What is it then?"

"In BCWD, science is your humanity. We have no room for dreamers here."


	4. Theory 2

**Yo! I'me back with another chapter! Well, another "theory" and preliminary chapter (Fortunately, this will be the second to last preliminary chapter)... This is a simpler little thing, like the prologue. I hope you enjoy! This is my second to last chapter on reserve; I just hope I can somehow finish another chapter before I hit the last one, or else y'guys might have to wait for a while. I'm so slow.**

**Well, either way, I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"I will permit no man to narrow and degrade my soul by making me hate him."  
—Booker T. Washington

"Theory 2: God Save the People"

I guess you should be able to guess how Arthur felt as he walked home from his visit to BCWD. I mean, isn't it obvious? Right off the bat, he had made enemies with Lovino, Antonio, and Gilbert. He even had hostilities from Francis, who wasn't exactly inclined to dislike anybody at all. In fact, I don't think he ever truly disliked anybody before; after all, he preferred to spend his time and energy to get to know somebody, rather than hating their very presence. So that's saying something. If Arthur could manage to get on Francis' bad side so easily, that would mean either Francis wasn't truly the people-lover everyone thought he was, or Arthur's personality was simply that bad. And, truth be told, the latter is far more plausible. After all, he entered BCWD, ready to impress his future colleagues, but ended up coming out furious like lava bursting from a volcano.

Unfortunately, going home did not help his mood. Upon opening the apartment door, he was greeted by a sprawled out body beside the door. It was his eldest brother, Alistair. He had the most despicable grin on his face and swung around a half-empty whisky bottle in his hand with his crutches strewn aside beside him. Believe it or not, this sort of greeting hadn't been entirely foreign to Arthur, except for the fact that Alistair had two times more alcohol than normal, if the empty bottles littering the floor gave any more evidence away. But there was just something that made Arthur even angrier than usual. Maybe it was because of his terrible experience in BCWD—I don't know. But there was just something that made Arthur shout, something he rarely did. I still can remember the words, even now.

"_What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"_

Alistair said something back. I'm not quite sure what exactly it was. It had been slurred out with incoherent, unintelligible words. _"Ah ma shell-e-braining yar fish tan peh she dub yu day,"_ I think he had said. But don't take my work for it. All I know is that something he said caused Arthur to make this horridly disgusted expression. That was unforgettable. His giant eyebrows had inched together, his nose crinkled, and his scowl pulled down his cheeks. Green eyes were slitted, and the edges were wrinkled into dark lines. He had been absolutely insulted, and anyone who would disagree is a fool.

Alistair had been a fool. He kept talking, raising the half-empty bottle up.

Arthur should have left Alistair on the floor. He had every right to, and his brother wouldn't have minded in the long run anyway. But he didn't. Instead, Arthur let out a long sigh, brushed his hair back with his fingers, and then pulled Alistair up by the arm. Then he dragged his brother to the single couch of the flat and tossed the drunken man there. Alistair didn't say anything after that. At some point, Arthur had picked up all the empty bottles, laid the pair of crutches against the wall beside Alistair, and placed the half-empty whisky bottle on a table. Alistair had fallen asleep by then with his leg over an armrest, an arm over his head, and his other arm and a stub of a right leg hanging over. His face was still as red as when Arthur first saw him, but the grin was gone.

Silence had followed. I don't know what Arthur had done during that period of time, but I do know that the phone rang. The ringtone was this strange sound so obnoxious and peculiar that even a drunk man could identify it.

Arthur's boss had called. Either him or one of Arthur's other co-workers, I'm not quite sure. They were all alike anyway. All they ever talked about was work and schedules, those silly Chinese restaurant workers. I had only caught half of the conversation, but assuming that Arthur was talking to the employer, then the conversation must have gone something like this:

"_Arthur, where the hell are you? You said that you were only going to be a little late. Now you're late by three hours. _Three hours!_"_

"_I know. But I'm exhausted now; I don't think I will make it today."_

"_I don't care. Yong-Soo has been covering you. He's working overtime here, and he's ten times more exhausted than you will ever be."_

"_Tell him I'm sorry."_

"_No. Explain yourself. What the hell kept you so long? What's so important that makes you skip on work and _completely disregard_ Yong-Soo? If it's a reasonable response, I _may_ not deduct your pay."_

"_I visited BCWD. I recently got an internship."_

"_Is that so?"_

"_Yes."_

"_You should quit."_

"_Wait. What?"_

"_Quit. You have a job here. We pay you enough to sustain both you and your brother comfortably. We'll even give you a raise if you want. And you can have boarding here too. You don't need BCWD."_

"_Why would I do that?"_

"_I don't like it there."_

"_But I have worked all my life to get there. I still don't get it."_

"_It stinks of death. Nothing comes out of there alive."_

"_Huh?"_

"_Think about it carefully. I won't be deducting your salary today."_

Then the conversation ended there. My words may not be accurate, but at least I know they are credible. When Arthur had put away the phone, he looked confused, simply staring at the keypad for a few moments. And then he sat down on a chair, still staring. But after, he picked up a thick book from the stand and flipped it open. I think it was called _The Lord of Rings_ or something like that. He didn't read much after arriving to the World Domain—he had little time to—and all the books he picked up looked alike. He may have read that for a good 3 years before getting halfway through. But that day, he read maybe one or two pages, and then picked up a half-empty whisky bottle and took a long swig.

Something about the call had made Arthur uncomfortable.


	5. Law 2, Part 1

**Yo, Hikou no Kokoro is back, after the two week of nothing (actually, more like two weeks of exams. Gah, how I hate them.). Well, anyway, I'm back in session, and here's, technically, the last of the preliminary chapters (Yay!), so this little guy is a bit on the light-hearted side though. But, at least I have another chapter up in reserves! So that means you don't need to wait for a month for a chapter just yet.**

**Well, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"The bluebird carries the sky on his back."  
—Henry David Thoreau

"Law 2: Preludes, Part 1"

The next day, Arthur's whole outlook had changed. After his good night sleep untouched by the stress of his job, he finally realised his mistakes on the first day of BCWD. He blundered quite horribly, and he resolved to change, hopefully, for the better.

First thing he changed was his appearance. The formal dress yesterday had been highly impractical for the amount of walking he had to do. As a result, he switched to something a little more casual, wearing a white shirt, a brown vest, and khaki pants. He knew that he would still stick, but he didn't have the supposed "uniform" of scrubs and lab coats. Next he got rid of the gelling his hair. Like his formal wear, that had been a bad decision on his part. He had originally tried to tame his messy hair; however, he only succeeded in wasting an excessive amount of time. Instead, this time, he left his hair untouched; of course he made sure to comb it though. He wasn't a barbarian. And finally, Arthur spent a split second considering doing something about his eyebrows. Following Francis' advice was tempting, but Arthur completely threw the idea out. His eyebrows were perfect as they were, and nobody could change that.

The second thing he changed was his act. He had demonstrated a short-temper and a terribly insubordinate attitude, going against his chivalrous code. It was no wonder that he had angered so many people, specifically Gilbert who had started off quite personable. If only he had demonstrated some more self-control, he may have been able to make more working relationships than enemies. Arthur must have been at fault. After all, people such as Gilbert and Francis were all staff members of BCWD, and were amongst the higher ranks. They had to be absolutely perfect in their occupation; even Francis must have had an unforeseen brilliance that Arthur was not aware of.

And with such an attitude, Arthur walked down the corridors of BCWD, prepared to make a great second impression. He was going to be the upright gentleman he was and impress all of the staff members of the institution. He even talked to the kind lady in the front for a map of the whole campus and asked for the names and department of his most prominent superiors, such as Ludwig Beilschmidt, Vash Zwingli and Roderick Edelstein. And the best part was that Arthur had dared to go around and ask the whereabouts of Francis Bonnefoy. Finding a possibly correct answer had been quite a challenge. Not many had seen Francis, and others who had would give out a large variety of answers. "He's probably in Safety Room 42 in the hospital building," a few had said. "He has to be in his office. He was walking in that direction a few moments ago," a handful had replied. "I bet he's in the Ludwig's office. I did hear him getting paged," a variety of people had told Arthur.

But they had all been wrong.

Francis wasn't in the Safety Room 42, nor was he in his office. And when Arthur walked passed where Ludwig's office supposedly was, he found the door wide open to reveal nothing inside. Instead, Francis was where everyone least expected: Yes, he was in the hallways.

Actually, Francis was more or less running through the hallways. He was panting, swinging his arms back forth while his lab coat whipped behind him as he weaved around people and said a quick _excuse me_ if he bumped into anyone. In fact, that was exactly how Arthur found him.

Arthur had been walking through the corridors, glancing briefly out the window on his right. It showed the Land Control Centre, but the dome was on the other end of the building, looming right over the flat ceiling. Then he heard a scream. At first, he had thought it was an inhuman noise, but he realised that it was the sound a coward made. Instinctively, like most other people, he whipped his head towards the sound.

And that was when he saw Francis running, turning the corner at full speed and crying something along the lines of, "Don't kill me! I'm sorry!"

There was a gunshot. Everyone but Francis leapt out of their skins. And then a group of four appeared around the corner. The apparent "leader" was this blond in a blue, military uniform and a smoking rifle. He didn't seem all that amazing upon first glance: plain face, almost stereotypical skin, maybe shoulders just a bit broader than most average people, and piercingly mean green eyes. But the mere aura and shouts he gave off sent shivers down anybody's spines. Then the one behind him was another blond with slicked back hair and bright blue eyes. He was significantly larger compared to the other and was wearing a lab coat. People would think that he would be one of the slower runners due to his physique, but he caught up with the other completely fine. Two other people were chasing those two. One was a girl in a sundress with her dirty-blonde hair cut short. She looked quite similar to the military-garbed man, but she did not hold the same toughness as he did. Instead, she looked like a twig, or maybe a thin, flat board used for flooring. Everything about her looked fragile. But somehow, she still seemed to manage outrunning her partner. And that "partner" was a man of dark brown hair, running much like the girl beside him. He was a stout little thing with a nice complexion that was unique to the group. But for some odd reason, Arthur felt like he had seen that man before.

"Run, mon chéri! Run!" Francis dashed right past. He grabbed Arthur's hand and the two ran, with a gun aimed at both of their backs.

"Stay still so I can shoot you down, snail eater!"

"I _demand _that you get back here, Bonnefoy!"

"Ludwig, calm down!"

"Brother, let me explain!"

Arthur stumbled on his feet and glanced back. Then he glared back at Francis. "What the _bloody hell_ is wrong with you?" he screamed at Francis.

"No time to explain—I'm in _so_ much trouble." Francis whipped around another corner, bumping into a woman. With a quick apology and a blown kiss, he whizzed past her.

"I can tell! Now tell me why!" Arthur tried to stop them both, but only ended up stumbling a few more times.

"I cut Lili's hair; I didn't finish any papers. Happy?"

Arthur scowled even more deeply. Francis turned into another corner, but skidded to a stop. He turned on his heels towards a steel door labelled "Janitor," and his hands jiggled the doorknob. It was stuck. Then he began patting himself down, reaching into his pockets to turn them inside out.

While Francis was panicking, Arthur was simply displeased. The intern folded his arms across his chest and glared at Francis' little "show." "I think you deserve being butchered alive."

"Aw, don't say that, mon chéri." Finally, Francis found the ID card in his back pocket and reached to slide it through the door. But it was already too late. There was another gunshot. Squealing, Francis fumbled and dropped the card. Following that was a shout, smoke, and two men running right at them. Francis was cornered. And Arthur couldn't care less.

A hand slammed against the wall. "Finally have you," the burly man in the lab coat growled. Then he began cracking his knuckles and neck as he glared at Francis, who was cowering and simpering with hands in the air. Close behind him, the military-garbed partner pulled open a mechanism in his gun.

Francis yelped upon hearing the little click. "I'm so sorry! Please don't kill me!" he begged, clasping his hands together and shaking them in front of his face. "I-I'll do anything! Please!"

The gun clicked again. "Now, how about you hold still so I can shoot this bullet through your forehead?"

The burly man held out a hand. "Wait. I have a better idea." His naturally bright blue eyes seemed to be seeping with patronising anger, and his mouth was stretched long and thin across his face. "Let's chain him to his desk for a month and force him to do all of his papers for 14 hours a day, 6 days a week."

"No! Anything but that! I'm begging you!"

The gunman snapped his gun on a belt strapped around his shoulders and chest, and slung it over his back. "I like that idea more." Then the two men approached Francis.

"Have mercy!"

For only a brief moment, Arthur wondered if he should help Francis. The men seemed quite serious. After all, they were all BCWD staff members; joking around was never a part of the World Domain standards and stereotype. And if that was the case, what would happen to Arthur? He would be teacher-less; his internship may be extended. He didn't want that. But then again, Arthur didn't need Francis. He would be just fine on his own, and if not, then he could just enjoy the direction of a more competent mentor. Yeah, that sounded quite appealing.

Unfortunately, Arthur was unable to decide himself. Two "saviours" came to Francis' rescue. The pair—the brunette boy and the blonde girl—from before ran around the corner and shouted. The brunette tackled the blond man in the lab coat, wrapping his arms around the waist. "Think this over, Ludwig!" he practically squealed, eyes screwed up tight. The female too leapt up. But she wrapped her arms around the neck of the military-garbed man, kicking her thin, little legs as she clung on.

Ludwig shouted angry words. His hands were gripping the brunette's hands and trying to peel them away. On the other hand, the military-garbed man almost flung the girl off his shoulders. But then he stopped, his hands in the air freezing while reaching backwards to grab the girl. His arms went back to his side and he nudged the hands around his neck off. A growl rumbled in his throat, and he asked, "What is it, Lili?"

"I had asked him to cut my hair," the little girl replied. She slipped off the man's back and landing on her sandaled feet. Beside her, the brunette was continuing to jabber, desperately rewrapping his arms around the gruff man each time his hands were pried off.

The man scowled. "Why did you ask him?" he inquired. Meanwhile, Francis was trying to slip away. His back was pressed against the wall and he was sidling away. The military-garbed man snapped at him and Francis immediately retreated back to his spot, yelping like an injured puppy. Then the voices of the arguing men beside him grew in volume, and he snapped at those two as well, easily shutting up the blond and the brunette, who cowered back and whined. And then the man turned back to Lili, his blond eyebrows inching together and moving up the middle of his forehead. "You have such beautiful hair!"

The girl seemed to blush. Her fingers twisted a few locks at the front and her feet shifted back and forth. "I wanted to look like you…"

In a single moment, the man was sent from being an evil plotter to being a blushing boy. "Oh." Then he looked away, his nose pointing up towards the ceiling. And as if nobody else was there and nothing else mattered, he wrapped his arm around the girl and walked off, muttering, "Your hair is beautiful at any length." The problems with Francis were forgotten, but nobody dared complain, least of all Francis.

But Arthur was left with a strange feeling, almost like that moment was anticlimactic. Off the two people had gone as if they had never been there—no introductions, no acknowledgements, nothing. To Arthur, that was considered strange, but apparently that was not so for the rest of the people as the obnoxious squealing continued.

"Don't kill me, Monsieur!"

"Let go! Let me kill him!"

"Don't do it, Ludwig!"

And on went the petty fight. The strange shouts grated against Arthur's nerves. Now, he would never raise his voice towards his authorities, especially after just deciding to be a proper subordinate merely a few hours ago. Maybe it was because of the feeling that something was missing only a few minutes before, or maybe it was the moment of silence sliced almost awkwardly in the flow of yelling, but somehow, Arthur's patience snapped into two and his resolve threw itself out of the window.

The intern slammed his hand against the wall. "Shut the _bloody hell up_, you lot of drugged chipmunks!"

All eyes fell upon Arthur. Almost immediately, he regretted his actions. Francis' expression was one of shock and a potpourri of a few other unidentifiable emotions; the brunette's was a variation of Francis' except with tears in the corner of the chocolate eyes. But it was the look coming from Ludwig that had frightened Arthur back into his place. Small, blue eyes were thinned out, almost in a glare; a frown was spread across his face; a small nose was wrinkled slightly down the middle and the edges; and the muscles in the shoulders were tensed and visible through the cloth of his coat. The blond man looked ready to burst into a fit of insults and orders. Arthur gulped and took a step back, wondering if it was too late to apologise or explain himself.

But luck was on his side. Unlike everybody else, Ludwig didn't turn to argue with Arthur, yelling and chastising. Instead, he merely straightened up and adjusted his collar. It was as if a switch was changed; sheer and undeniable professionalism had replaced the bout of pettiness in only a matter of seconds. "Please forgive me for my unsightly behaviour," he spoke, his voice rumbling and low in the back of his throat. "I should have controlled my temper." Then a glare was shot towards Francis, who let out a yelp and backed away.

"Uh… Don't worry about it," Arthur replied. His voice was quiet, quite unlike how it was just seconds ago.

Ludwig pried thin fingers off his torso and approached Arthur. His steps were cool and calculated, making a steady clicking sound as his clean shoes touched the ground. Behind him, the little brunette scuttled over to Francis and those two clung onto each other with Francis whimpering as if he had seen Death. But those two were largely ignored, and the large, blond man seemed unbothered by their actions—he either did not notice, or he did not care. His full attention was directed at Arthur, like a single-minded voyager seeking a particular destination or destinations.

"I am Ludwig Beilschmidt," he said and then gestured behind him with a careless wave of the hand, "and the other is my secretary, Feliciano Vargas." Then he stuck out a hand. "I presume that you are Bonnefoy's new intern, Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur hesitated for a moment, peering around Ludwig at the two behind him. They were still clinging onto each other, whispering little messages to each other as they stared right at Ludwig and him. Their almost scrutinising gaze made Arthur feel a bit uncomfortable, but Ludwig seemed unfazed. Maybe the big man did not notice them. And maybe Arthur should follow suit. With only a droplet of reluctance, Arthur took the large, coarse hand and shook it. Dried skin rubbed against Arthur's fingers like invisible spikes. "Yes, I am he. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Beilschmidt." He smiled. The name seemed bring about an oddly familiar feeling to it.

"Good, good." Ludwig nodded and pulled his hand back. His eyes were aimed right at Arthur's, appearing almost as if they were peering over a pair of glasses and looking down upon the intern. "I have been waiting for you. Follow me." Then he turned around and glared. "Oi! Stop cowering there! We're going!" His words slipped out, swift and concise, causing the two to jump and yelp as they scampered after the large man. Even Arthur could not help himself from acting like a chastised puppy, slinking after Ludwig.

Thus began the group of four's march down the hall, with Ludwig leading with radiant confidence and the other three shuffling after him. The atmosphere was severely different from when Francis had led Arthur down the hallway. Ludwig was efficient and straightforward—he got things done. There were no little flurries, no tiny detours. He had a goal, and he completed each and every one as quickly as possible with a single-mindedness that would only be characteristic of robots. He didn't waste time like Francis would. He didn't talk to the random passersby; in fact, his mouth remained shut and stern. Not a word was spoken, and no short greetings were given to the others walking down the corridor—until Francis spoke, and got Feliciano to as well.

The blond man, with his lowered head and shrugged shoulders, nudged Feliciano beside him with his elbow. They exchanged quick words. And then Feliciano nodded and sidled up next to Arthur, smiling.

"Ciao, Arthur! I'm-a Feliciano Vargas! We've met only briefly yesterday! You were the one getting yelled at!" the brunette whispered, but his voice was loud enough to earn a look from Ludwig. But the man did not seem to react any more than that, so the glance was quickly dismissed. "You're Francis' new buddy!"

Arthur frowned. This little brunette was the same one who had witnessed one of Arthur's unfortunate disputes; it was no wonder why he looked so familiar. "Yes, I know that," Arthur growled out.

"Yeah! You're going to have fun with Francis; he's really nice," the boyish man rambled. His voice rose in volume and bumped up one partial higher. "I used to work under him. He was my teacher! Now my boss is Ludwig over there! He's really nice too!"

"I see."

"Uh…" Feliciano paused for a brief moment, looking upwards with a finger pressed to his chin as he thought. "Oh! Apparently I'm on your league too! I graduated early, and I finished my internship in half the time than usual! I heard you finished your college studies in four and a half years—near record time! That's so cool! How did you do it?"

Arthur nodded along. "Magic," he answered curtly, walking further ahead and closer to Ludwig.

Little Feliciano fell silent after that. Arthur's unresponsive behaviour made keeping a conversation going difficult, so the brunette, disappointed, fell behind in step with Francis with his head down and shoulders sagging. Arthur could hear some whispering going on and a small whine behind him, but he completely disregarded that as he fell into step behind Ludwig.

In truth, despite Ludwig's more intimidating nature, Arthur admired him. Ludwig seemed like he perfectly knew what he was doing, and he wasn't letting some petty distractions get in his way. He was someone who had his priorities straight, very unlike Francis and Feliciano, who continued to jabber away quietly. And such dedication and professionalism Ludwig demonstrated—there was really nothing Arthur could not admire Ludwig for. Maybe, one day, Arthur could become someone comparable to Ludwig: to be able to command the self-control and dedication, and possibly even able to control the subordinates beneath him with efficiency and frankness. What a dream Arthur would strive for.

Eventually, Ludwig slowed himself to a halt. He stood in front of another one of those steel doors leading into offices, except he had a nice glass window to the right of the door, allowing people to peek in to see the secretary's reception desk, which happened to be piled up with stacks of papers resembling the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa. Upon the door was a plaque saying, "General Commander of BCWD Headquarters." It was one of the nicer looking plaques, for there was a gold hue in both the metal and the engraved words.

The gruff man reached into one of his coat's pockets and pulled out a set of keys. All of them held a opaque white coloration, appearing as if they were made of the same material as the white walls in the campus medical facility with its small bursts of blue lines. However, only one of them was yellow. It was made of the same material as the rest, but there were a gold-brown mist and bursts of neon green lines rather than white mist with blue lights. Ludwig picked out that unique key and stuck it into the doorknob. A flash of green lines coursed through the dark metal and a keypad slid out. And then Ludwig took out his ID card and slid that through. Another burst of lines and the door slid open.

For some odd reason, Arthur felt that he would never get used to that.

"Come in," Ludwig said, walking through the door. The rest followed after him, except for Feliciano.

The little brunette somehow managed to slip between the doorway and Ludwig, who didn't seem to notice, and trotted in the office before anybody else. Without a word, he plopped down in the chair behind the reception desk and scooted forward, making an obnoxious grating sound across the waxed ground. Leaning forward, Feliciano smiled. "Hello, are you here to visit Mr. Beilschmidt?"

Ludwig shot Feliciano a look. But Feliciano stayed smiling. "See if there are any messages I need to look through," Ludwig ordered with a small wave.

Feliciano saluted. "Yes, sir, Captain!" Then he scooted himself to the computer to the left and started moving the mouse.

Ludwig waved to Francis and Arthur to follow, and they did, turning right into a room next door. A brown door stood between Ludwig's office and Feliciano's, but it was held open by a wooden wedge. The office itself, like all of the other rooms in the building, was plain with its white walls and its box-like structure. There really was nothing interesting. Two bookcases leaned against the walls, but only four shelves were lined with books. And between the cases was a large desk with a laptop propped on top of a paperback off to the right. The wooden surface of the table was clean and the wooden polish reflected the square lighting—there were no random papers, weird decorations, or picture frames. Only a name stand was placed on the edge. Right behind the desk was a swivelling chair. But it wasn't one of those luxurious, fancy leather things. Instead, it was cheap with a plastic frame and mesh cushion and backing. Four other chairs were pushed off into the corners, each being of the nice wooden seats with cloth cushions. Ludwig had gestured to two of them before sitting his seat behind the desk.

As Arthur and Francis dragged their seats over, Ludwig rolled himself to the laptop, much like what Feliciano had done. The screen lit up blue, shining a tinted hue across half of Ludwig's face. His fingers skimmed over the trackpad, while his bright blue eyes flickered from one part of the screen to another. His mouth formed a few brief words, but they were not audible to neither Francis nor Arthur.

After a brief moment of silence, Ludwig spoke up again. "Kirkland, have you filled out your final document?"

"What?"

The blond man glanced at Arthur before looking back at the computer screen. "The confirmation papers. You were supposed to BCWD a week ago to pick them up and fill them out. Did you not get a letter from Bonnefoy?"

Arthur's large eyebrows inched together and he shook his head. "I did get a letter saying that I should pick up a packet, but it had told me to come by today. I tried to get it yesterday, but I did not receive it."

Beside him, Francis simpered, shrugging his shoulders while the two other men glared right at him. "Sorry."

Ludwig sighed and turned back to his laptop to type some things in. "All right then. I will have Vargas send you the packet to your home tomorrow. Please complete it as early as possible so we may be able to make your ID and access card." Arthur stuck a finger up at Francis, scowling, while Francis held his hands up in surrender and mouthed a stream of apologies, but Ludwig did not seem to notice. Instead, a small 'ding' and a message had caught his attention. His eyes skimmed the words again and his fingers skidded back across the trackpad. Without lifting his eyes from the screen, he said, "Or not. You signed up for the 'paid internship'—that completes it for you."

Francis grinned at Arthur and whispered, "So you really didn't need to worry about it. Told you so."

Arthur hissed back, "When the hell did you tell me?"

"I don't know."

Ludwig cleared his throat. The two others' attention immediately shot back to him. "Are you sure you want to enter the Paid Internship Program?" he continued. "You will have to take on extra assignments that will not count in your credit nor would they always help your profession, and it can become overwhelming. You may have Bonnefoy to help and that gives you an advantage"— Arthur shot Francis a disbelieving glance. In response, Francis' grin widened and he wiggled his eyebrows.—"however, he will not be able to help you on quite a few assignments, thus your workload would increase significantly. Are you sure you are willing to take it?" Ludwig's large, coarse hands clasped together on the table. "Reports tell me that you have a job and plenty of money left from your scholarship. You would not need to be in the program."

Subconsciously, Arthur also intertwined his own fingers across his lap. "I do realise that. However, I am currently the only person supporting my family here."

Suddenly, Francis squealed. "You have family living with you?" he asked. His hands were balled into fists and shook in front of his shoulders. The behaviour seemed to resemble an overexcited schoolgirl rather than a fully matured man. "How many?"

Arthur leaned back as far away from Francis as possible, shooting the man a very strange look. "I live with one other person."

"Oh, my God! Your partner must be a complete angel to have to deal with you every day!" Francis sighed, eyes looking up with this strange dreamy quality. "I must meet her someday."

Arthur opened his mouth to shoot a few words, but Ludwig's voice cut through before his. "Ignore him, Kirkland," Ludwig ordered. Those simple words forced Arthur silent. However, Francis whined and drooped, unhappy that his little tangent was cut short. "I will see if you are capable of being in the program; you will see the answer on your completed ID card." Then Ludwig pushed himself to the other end of the desk and opened a drawer. Fingers ran up and down a line of files before he opened another drawer. "In the meantime, I will be giving you your first assignment. This is a long-term one, and I expect you to place this one with first priority over any other ones you get." He pulled out a thin booklet and passed it over the table towards Arthur. "It contains two experiments, called AM-1245 and CA-520."

A chair clattered to the ground.

"Ludwig! What are you thinking?" Francis had leapt up from his seat, his eyes wide and his hands balled up into fists at his side. He looked absolutely furious: A scowl traced across his expression and his face lit up with a shine of red. Even Arthur backed away, sitting on the edge of his chair. "Didn't you assign NL-234508 and NA-65709B to us? Something like this is way too early for him!"

Ludwig looked up at Francis with a painful indifference. His chin leaned against his hands. "I realise that, and I know I had taken up your recommendation only a day ago. However, we are running low on staff members; too many have gone to the shores. Dr. Edelstein had told me that it would be better to graduate and accept more candidates, and I would like Kirkland to finish his internship in half the normal time." He sighed and leaned back against the back of his chair. "Besides, NL-234508 and NA-65709B have been disposed of. The bioengineered lungs have disintegrated into ash. I doubt you and Kirkland would be able to do anything for those anyway."

Francis sighed and his shoulders sagged. "I see." He righted his chair back up before plopping back into it. Leaning forward and resting his forehead on his knuckles, he let out another long sigh.

Arthur, on the other hand, did not understand what was going on. He realised that the codes were numbers identifying experiments, but he did not seem to get why Francis preferred two other experiments over the ones Ludwig had named. Were they more advanced? Did Francis feel that Arthur would not be up to the challenge, especially if he were to be a part of the Paid Internship Program? Well, if that was the case, then Arthur would much prefer Ludwig's suggestion. He was capable; in fact, he was almost offended that Francis thought he would be unable to complete the challenge and advanced learning. Arthur leaned forward with his hands on his knees, speaking with hidden excitement in his voice, "What is wrong with AM-1245 and CA-520? I am sure I will be able to adapt to the accelerated schedule."

"It's not whether or not you will be able to keep up; I am sure you will be able to take the skip, Kirkland." Ludwig sucked in a breath, pausing for only a brief moment. But then Francis, with his words aimed at the ground, explained the situation himself.

"It's just that AM-1245 and CA-520 have names. They're Alfred and Matthew, respectively."


	6. Law 2, Part 2

**Yo! Hikou no Kokoro back with another chapter. This is one of the shorter Law Chapters, but it's officially the start of "crap hitting the fan." Technically, in my opinion, this is just the trickling and "typing up" the ends of the preliminary chapters-as in, you'll finally be seeing Alfred and Matthew! But things will really start going down on the next chapter, which I finished and I put on reserve.**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder.  
We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake."  
—Frederick Douglass

"Law 2: Preludes, Part 2"

The look on Arthur's face had been utterly priceless. At first, Arthur didn't know what to think. He had never heard of experiments having both code numbers _and_ names. But then the implications finally hit him. Arthur Kirkland, with the help of his mentor, was going to handle _human_ experiments. Never in his life had working with human experiments been at the top of his expectation list.

But Arthur was no fool. He had heard many stories of human experimentation. In fact, there had been plenty of that many years before the creation of the World Domain and BCWD; there were some psychology and medicine tests using volunteers, although a good number of them had sprouted controversy, such as the Stanford Prison Experiment. So in that moment, Arthur figured nothing was wrong, especially since the experiments would be conducted in the World Domain, where controversy couldn't touch anything. But why had Francis looked so disapproving?

Francis had let out a long sigh and approached Ludwig's desk. In an almost hushed tone that somehow still sounded crisp and clear, he had asked, "Did you tell them of the arrangements?"

Ludwig had nodded. "Of course, Bonnefoy. I had a feeling that you would disagree with the arrangement, so I had sent Vargas to clear as many troubles he could," Ludwig had explained. "Edelstein also did their check-ups and appointments, so you do not need to worry about anything other than what you think is needed."

"Fine. Thank you."

And then Francis and Arthur had left to go to the BCWD Hospital and Medical Research Centre. Arthur was still as confused as ever. He would switch from looking ahead in the hallways to looking up at Francis and back. On the other hand, Francis started jabbering away, waving his arms around in a strange sign language to accompany his words. It seemed that Francis was back to his normal self. "Today's beautiful!" he would say. "What's your family like?" he would ask.

Still Arthur said nothing so Francis was talking to himself. But his silence wasn't because of annoyance; there was no grunt of acknowledgement to prove that he was even affected by Francis' meaningless banter. Arthur was thinking, trying desperately to pull apart the indications of possible danger. He didn't understand. And he hated that. Everything came out abstract to him. What was going on? What should he think? What was the most practical decision he could make? Arthur couldn't register anything except for the sun, the windows, and the passing white walls and doors; he was thinking about everything, running possibility after possibility, scenario after scenario, through his mind, so then he could stand stable ground, his more favoured situation. Little did he know that he was thinking much too hard about this, and Francis was about to attempt to clear things up.

In what seemed to be like moments, the two stopped at a brown door in the middle of the hallway. It was like a splotch against the white, windowless wall. Off to the right, close to a little dent in the door, was a label with little numbers on it. And below that label, metallic numbers told 29.

"You know, I really like these door systems," Francis said aimlessly, reaching into his pockets for his ID card. Arthur didn't know what Francis had talked about previously in order to get on the subject of doors. "They're not like those fancy things you see in the other branches, with those funky blood scanners or fingerprint-identifiers or something like that. They're simple—card and keypad. Yet they still seem to provide maximum protection. I have no idea they work though." Then Francis slid the plastic into the little dent in the door. Like the other doors on BCWD campus, a keypad slid right out. However, oddly enough, the keys did not have numbers. Instead, indiscernible symbols decorated the top. They were nothing like Arthur had seen before. Yet, Francis' fingers still glided over the keys as if the characters were as familiar as the Roman alphabet. Once he hit enter, a burst of red lines travelled across the brown and the door slid open with a soft vacuuming sound. "You know, I'll never get used to that."

The room was a small, narrow space with a width of the BCWD corridor and twice that length. On the far end a window let the sun in, lighting up only half of the room. Two sets of cabinets and counters lined the walls directly adjacent to the window, littered with papers, boxes, and plastic-wrapped equipment. And directly next to where the door Francis had opened was one bathroom that stemmed from the room like a hollow, box-like tumour. And between the opening to the bathroom and the pairs of counters and cabinets leaned two plain beds with grey metal frames and immaculately white sheets, pushed against opposite walls. A blond teen sat on one of the beds and a polar bear plushie sat on the other.

For a split second, the boy was facing the other empty bed with slumped shoulders. He seemed to have been talking to somebody. But that quick moment passed before Arthur could notice anything. Upon hearing the door, the boy was sitting up at attention, back straight, hands resting on his lap, and his head turned towards Arthur and Francis. A pair of brilliantly bright eyes stared at the two men, glimmering with every drop of child-like excitement through a set of thin, rectangular glasses. They were a brilliantly bright blue colour, surrounded by the hue of pale skin and framed by messy, dirty-blond hair that curled inwards towards his eyebrows and his nose. And although the shade was light and tinted like the blue of the scrubs he was wearing, there was a strange quality to them, as if they shone like cats' eyes in the dark environments, giving them an electrical effect similar to the neon yellow of his hospital band and his fire-truck red of his fluffy slippers.

A large grin spread across the boy's face. "Dude! Francis! Y'brought company!" he exclaimed. His voice was as obnoxious as a blaring siren, coming out loudly and nasally as if he spent his days listening to music turned all the way up. The boy bounded over to them. "But did you bring me any candy?"

Francis smiled back as he entered the room with Arthur following and the door closing behind them. "I think so," Francis replied. He slipped his ID card into one of his back pants pockets; then he reached into the lowest right pocket of his pocket and pulled a handful of plastic-wrapped sweets. "I don't have any gummies, though."

Alfred cheered and snatched the candy from Francis. "Don't ya worry your beard, Frannie." With his palms up, the teenager counted under his breath. There were two sticks of gum, four pieces of hard candy, a lollipop, and two chunks of milk chocolate. He seemed to be quite satisfied with the number, breathing deeply through his nose, and stuffed the pieces into his scrubs' pocket. "Thanks, dude!" he said before he bounded back over to his bed and plopped onto it.

"Make sure to save some for Matthew. And don't eat them too quickly when I'm not looking either; you'd get sick, and then I can't give you any more."

"Yeah, yeah, Mum." Alfred brought his legs up onto the bed, leaving his slippers on the floor, and started sitting in the Turkish style. He pulled back out the lollipop and two pieces of hard candy.

"So, Alfred, where's Matthew?"

"Right there." A finger pointed briefly towards the bed across from him.

Arthur looked at them in a bewildered expression. He saw nobody except the stuffed animal on the bed. Blinking, he looked towards the area again. But he still saw nothing. Was he missing something and the obviously inanimate bear was this "Matthew," or did Alfred have an imaginary friend and Francis was humouring the teen as he usually seemed to do? But that would make no sense after what Ludwig had said. Unfortunately, his confused looked had gone unnoticed for Francis walked up to the empty bed and Alfred was unwrapping a piece of candy.

Suddenly, Alfred tossed the lime-green sweet through the air. Francis ducked and it flew right over his head. Then a hand caught it. But it was neither Alfred's hand, which was across the room, nor Francis', which was slipped into one of his many pockets. In fact, the hand wasn't even there before; Arthur was sure of it. Instead, the hand had appeared right when it caught the candy, rippling into existence. Promptly afterwards, a whole boy appeared; a shimmering effect trailed from the palm to his feet until finally, he was finally completely opaque.

He looked like any normal boy; he must have been around the same age as Alfred. In fact, he looked quite similar to Alfred: They had the same, thin hands, same rounded cheekbones, same nose, same mouth, same hair colour, same pairs of glasses, and, most of all, the same eyes. They were the same light blue hue, looking around with the same electrical effect. But, at the same time, they were not the same, just like how the boy cut his wavy hair at a length just above his shoulders rather than close to his scalp, or how his scrubs were white rather than blue or how his hospital band was red rather than yellow. In a very strange and subtle way, the eyes almost shone purple under the faint light of the room, yet somehow still remained the exact same hue of light blue at the same time.

Arthur blinked and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked back to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Apparently not. The boy was still there, and he picked up the polar bear plushie and cuddled it.

"Ah! There you are, mon Mathieu!" Francis exclaimed, trotting to the bed to sit beside Matthew. The teenager smiled softly and popped the hard candy into his mouth. Then Francis wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders and pulled him close, grinning as he looked back at Arthur. "This is Matthew, Arthur!"

Matthew waved.

Arthur sputtered, eyes wide with shock. "W-when did he get here? H-how?"

Alfred laughed. "Dude! He was always here! You just couldn't see him!" He scooted over on his bed to give Arthur some room to sit.

"Exactly. Let me explain." Arthur didn't take the seat, so Francis gestured to the space. Arthur sat down after, staring at the eldest man. "These two kiddies are two out of the four hundred patients of the Adaptation or Evolution series. We're trying to enhance or borrow some capabilities of different species in hopes to add to the gene pool in preparation for any disasters. Matthew here is in one of the camouflage section; his cells are capable of contorting to the point that they will either bend the light or lose all opacity until he and objects directly next to him—such as clothing—are invisible to most light or movement detecting eyes. Alfred, on the other hand—" Alfred waved both of his hands enthusiastically at Arthur and Francis "—has enhanced cell repair or cell turnover, and muscle capacity; he's in the 'immortality' section, or so he calls it."

"But that is totally what I am, dude!" Alfred shouted.

"Okay."

Arthur paused for a moment. Then he asked, "So they're a pair of superhuman beings?"

"Sort of." Francis leaned back on his hands and crossed his legs. "They have to get examinations and appointments biweekly, and they have a variety of physical problems. But they pretty much fit in those fiction novels during the days of old."

Interrupting the conversation, Matthew tapped Francis' shoulder. Francis immediately looked at Matthew, dropping any extra comments he was about to add. "Is something wrong?" the BCWD staff member asked. The teen pointed at his throat. Francis nodded in understanding. "Of course. One moment." Then he got up and moved to the closest counters beside the bed. Matthew's gaze followed after him.

Arthur stared at Francis as well, wondering what was going on. But while Francis was opening the cabinets and pulling vials and bottles and utensils out, Alfred leaned over and whispered, "Hey, how long are you two staying here?"

Arthur shrugged, only briefly looking at Alfred before going back to Francis. His mentor was breaking seals of the different bottles and pouring them into a cup. At first, the liquid was transparent, like water. Then the colour turned grey when a few drops of a cloudy substance were added.

Alfred stayed silent for only a moment to think. Then he asked, "Then how long are you going to be taking care of us?"

Arthur shrugged again, his gaze darting to Alfred before going back. "I don't know. Mr. Beilschmidt told me that you're my first assignment. I figure that will be so for maybe a year or two until I finish my internship. Or maybe I'm wrong and I will be getting a new assignment in two weeks or maybe a month."

Alfred pulled away, frowning slightly. "Well, y'better stick around for longer than that!" Then he scooted closer to Arthur, pointing at Francis with his thumb. "Frannie there's the best doc in this jurisdiction! The rest are all crap," he explained quietly in Arthur's ear, as if he was telling a secret.

Arthur quirked an eyebrow. "Oh really? How so?"

"He just is! He's the nicest guy y'can find! Have you even _seen_ some of the other docs?"

Arthur shook his head. His green eyes darted back to Alfred. However, they didn't dart back to Francis.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Well, then, don't. They're all so crabby." He leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest and pouting. "They just come around, finish their work, and go away. 'Your next appointment will be in two weeks on the twenty-first.' 'I will be seeing you for your next examination tomorrow.' Bah! That's all they say or do! So _boring_! The rest—no better! Some o' th'nurses and docs come over and ask if you need anything. But they don't even give you what you want when you answer, so then what's the point of asking in the _first place_?" Alfred let out a frustrated sigh. His head tilted back so he stared at the ceiling. "And then that Edelstein and Adnan are the worst!"

Arthur shifted in his seat, his hands resting on his lap. "What do you mean?"

Alfred looked back at the BCWD intern. His eyebrows were curved and contorted in such a fashion that the look on his face almost literally wrote, "Are you serious?" Then, he glanced between Matthew and Francis, who seemed to have done nothing different since the last time he looked at them, before leaning back towards Arthur and muttering in a low, serious voice. "Edelstein and Adnan. Never heard of them?" Arthur shook his head. "They're seriously the worst, man; no doubt there. Edelstein walks and talks like he has a stick so far up his ass that he can't even walk properly. He's the stuffiest, prissiest company you could ever find. And that Doc Adnan? They call him the 'Headhunter,' y'know."

Instinctively, Arthur leaned closer to Alfred as well. He didn't know why he was acting like some sort of sissy schoolgirl sharing secrets with her friend, but he was. After seeing the "Headhunter" personally only the day before, Arthur was curious on what others would say about the man in the mask. The man had seemed all right to Arthur, but his eccentricities were quite strange, even to the other anomalies of the population. Subconsciously, Arthur glanced back in Francis direction. The eldest male in the room was still concocting something, and the solution was quickly turning a faint yellow.

Alfred spoke so softly that Arthur strained to hear the husky voice. "If you see him once, your hospital band will change. If you see him twice, you'll have more appointments and examinations. If you see him three times, you're on your deathbed. And if you see him more than that, you'll be tortured before you're killed."

Arthur pulled away. Those words were nothing he had expected. They were merely superstitions of the patients within the BCWD campus; they carried little to no weight to him. Yet he could understand how those sorts of rumours would start. That white mask did give a foreboding feeling whenever Adnan wasn't speaking or grinning. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but then Alfred pulled Arthur closer by his sleeve.

"I suggest you stay away from him. He's no friend you should get, bud. He's Death incarnate."

"Why?" Arthur whispered.

Alfred pulled away and shrugged. "I don't know. But that's what I heard. His patients had all died within three to four months under his custody; two of them survived two years though—don't know how. And the peeps he operated on—I heard they always get the worst nightmares and hallucinations. I think about half of them died within a two months since the operations and stuff."

Arthur sat backwards and slumped, scowling. "Is that so?" He glanced left and right and at his hands. Then he looked back up at Alfred.

The teen was unwrapping another piece of hard candy. It was a pink one with the words "Cherry" written across it. "Hey, did you know that the cafeteria food is awesome?" he asked, moving onto something else to talk about. His grin spread across his face again as he popped the sweet into his mouth. "The burgers here are awesome! They're _super_ yummy; they have pickles, lettuce, cheese, bacon, tomatoes—Oh! Do you know Lovino and Antonio? They're, like, addicted to tomatoes, dude!"

Slowly, Arthur's attention had wandered off and Alfred's loud and obnoxious words began to trail off through his head. He no longer wanted to hear what superficial information Alfred was going to give. Rudely, Arthur looked in Francis' direction instead. The doctor dropped a pill into the cup. The casing started to dissolve and rivulets of black substance dissolved like clouds of smoke. The procedure seemed absolutely fascinating. It looked quite complicated, especially since Francis had dedicated so much time and effort to complete whatever substance was in the cup. Arthur looked at Matthew, whom this supposedly medicine was for.

Matthew was disappearing. He was losing his opacity; Arthur could see where the bed met the wall through Matthew's head and eyes that continued to watch Francis with a stillness of a sculpture. Arthur could no longer see the boy's hands, and his clothes began to shimmer a silvery white that partly reflected the surrounding décor. Already, the plushie polar bear, with its limp head and dead-looking bead eyes, appeared to float over the bed. In a fit of panic, Arthur reached and touched Matthew's shoulder.

Matthew jolted. With a turn of his head, he once again regained the colour and substance, his whole being rippling as if a stone was thrown upon a glass lake. The brilliantly blue eyes, which still seemed so purple to Arthur, looked up at the intern, shocked and curious. Then a small smile crossed the teen's face. His eyes softened; they looked identical to Alfred's.

"Oh, do you want to administer his medicine?"

Arthur looked in the direction of the voice, both he and Matthew startled by the sudden sound. Francis was standing beside them, leaning on one leg and smiling as he held the cup up. The liquid had turned a deep, opaque red. In the light, there were shades of purple and little swirls of either light pink or black that made it appear cloudy. Hesitantly, Arthur let Matthew go and wiped his hand on his pants before reaching out to take the glass. Francis handed it over, and then Arthur simply stared. The intern had no idea what to do with it. So then he did the first and most obvious thing he could do; he simply held it out to Matthew.

At first, Matthew stared at it as well. Then he looked up at Arthur, and then at Francis, and back. He didn't seem to know what to do either, but he took the glass anyway, nodding slowly and shooting Arthur another one of his small smiles. Then he held the glass to his lips and sipped. His eyes didn't seem to move; they simply stared up at Arthur, wide like two glistening stuck into Matthew's head.

Suddenly, the door slid open. Almost all head snapped in that direction—only Matthew's had not moved for it stayed in place and continued to look up at Arthur—and silence was cast over them. Standing at the doorway, huffing and puffing like a wolf on the run, was a man with black hair and glasses. In truth, he looked a bit funny. He appeared, in every way, a proper gentleman: His black hair was slicked into a plain style with a part off to the side, his rectangular-framed glasses sat level upon his nose, and he stood with every piece of dignity that could be mustered. But at the same time, he was an utter mess. His coat and scrubs had vague crease lines running up and down in ruler-like lines, but they were predominately wrinkled. Webs upon webs criss-crossed across the fabric and left nothing crisp. His sneakers were no better. The laces were tied into perfection, but the actual shoes were covered in dirt and scuffed up around the toe and heel areas.

"Ew! It's Edelstein!" Alfred exclaimed, making a face.

The black-haired man shot Alfred a striking glare. But it was brief and held little to no weight for it quickly was directed to Francis. Of course it was towards Francis. For some odd reason, Francis always seemed to be doing something wrong, at least according to Arthur. "I finally found you," Edelstein said, pointing an accusing finger towards the other man clad in a lab coat. His voice was a strange one: His pronunciations were rough and grating; however, at the same time, his tone was nasally and uppity, flowing with an almost condescending demeanour. "Do you have _any_ idea how _difficult_ it is to hunt you down when you don't have either your Bluetooth or your tablet with you? I wasted almost an hour looking up and down campus _all_ because of your pathetic cyber-phobia!" He breathed in deeply, his shoulders and chest moving upwards, and exhaled with a loud hiss.

"It shouldn't have been _that_ hard to find me," Francis replied with a roll of his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued with a patronising tone that imitated Edelstein's, "So what do you need?"

Edelstein sighed and rubbed his forehead and eyes with his hands. His breathing calmed down quite a bit, and he spoke with a lowered voice and a level gaze. "I need you to check on Antonio for me?"

"Dude! What did you do to 'Toni?" Alfred burst out. Arthur shot the teen a glare and a hiss to shut him up, but Alfred didn't seem to notice. But then again, neither did Edelstein and Francis.

"Antonio? Why don't you check up on him?" Francis shifted from one foot to another. "If you had enough time to supposedly 'hunt me down for an hour,' then you should have gone yourself."

Edelstein's shoulders sagged as he let out another sigh. He shook his head and gave a regretful smile. "No, that won't work."

"…I see." Francis sighed as well as he trudged towards the door. "Arthur, we're going to Room 60."

Arthur scrambled to gather himself up.

"Aw! Don't leave!" Alfred whined.

Francis patted Alfred's shoulder as he passed by. "Don't worry, Alfred. We'll be back later this week." The blond doctor smiled at the teen, waving, as he stood beside Edelstein. Then his expression turned sombre again as he faced Edelstein again, ducking his head and whispering words.

Alfred whined again. The sound resembled something of a puppy's whimper, and his blue eyes were large with defeat. As Arthur walked past Alfred, he spared the teen only a second glance. Then Arthur continued without a sparing thought, seeing nothing other than what he presumed to be a sad child who couldn't get the candy in the supermarket.

But his sleeve caught on something.

Or something had caught his sleeve.

With a jolt, Arthur stopped and looked behind him, expecting to see Alfred clinging onto him and whining. But that was not the case. Instead, Matthew stood in Alfred's place, gingerly holding onto the hem of Arthur's sleeve and looking up at Arthur with a drooping gaze. Arthur had almost forgotten Matthew even existed. The glass in teen's hands was empty, cleaned from every little drop of whatever strange, red potion Francis had cooked up. Then Matthew spoke. His voice was quiet, passive, and hoarse, cracking like stones holding too much weight. That was the first time Arthur had heard Matthew say anything.

"Please save us."


	7. Law 2, Part 3

**Yo! Hikou no Kokoro here, bringing you another chapter. Finally, we are out of the (official) preliminary chapters and onto when the intensity really rises and with it, the pace gets faster. Unfortunately, this chapter is the last of my reserves since I couldn't make it this time around. So after this, the updating will be going off of how quickly I can finish writing each chapter. But ah, nevermind about that.**

**So enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"I always thought a yard was three feet, then I started mowing the lawn."  
—C.E. Cowman

"Law 2: Preludes, Part 3"

The words were like a pang of reality—a boulder falling from a cliff and smashing the sole victim below. Arthur hesitated, eyes as wide as Matthew's. He glanced towards Francis, who was still muttering phrases under his breath and didn't seem to notice anything, and then back at Matthew. Arthur opened his mouth, but no words formed. He glanced towards Francis again.

"I… I must go. Excuse me."

Matthew seemed to sigh. His shoulders sagged and his head nodded slowly. Then he let go.

Arthur scampered up to Francis. He arrived there just as his mentor was finishing up his quiet conversation.

"… his stomach was growling, but he insisted that he wasn't hungry," Edelstein said.

"… I'll see what I can do then."

With that, the two doctors finished their conversation. They straightened up, one smiling and the other looking quite satisfied with the outcome. The latter nodded curtly and pushed his glasses up closer to his eyes. "I am glad I can trust you," he said.

"Don't worry, mon chéri!" Francis stuffed his hands into his pockets and then pulled out a notepad and a pencil, waggling them in front of Edelstein with a wink. "I'll make sure to keep you updated."

Edelstein's expression of satisfaction turned sour and he scowled. "Don't be a fool. Now, don't forget to check on IT-606 while you're there, and change Antonio's band to purple if you see anything alarming. I don't want to do anything _I_ have assigned _you_."

Francis waved dismissively. "Of course, of course." Without glancing at his protégé, he stepped out of the room. "Let's go, Arthur."

Arthur hesitated for a moment. He was tempted to look back, but he thought better of it. Edelstein was already out of the room, heading in another direction. And, even though Francis was walking slowly, his back was still turned towards Arthur as if Francis was fully prepared to leave the intern behind. So Arthur chased after his mentor and the door slid close behind him. When he fell into step beside Francis, Arthur looked left at the blond man. He considered asking a question that had pressed itself to him since he heard AM-1245 and CA-520's names, but he didn't want to. Yet, he still wanted to know. Instead, he hoped that Francis would say something. Then Arthur wouldn't have to think about it. But when Arthur wanted and even expected Francis to make worthless chit-chat, Francis was silent, making small notes on his notepad and not bothering to look up even to avoid obstacles, which he somehow managed to weave around anyway.

Arthur opened his mouth. He paused then closed his mouth again.

"Is something the matter?" Francis asked. He glanced up as they came to an intersection in the corridors and pointed to the left.

"Uh, yeah." Arthur took the left turn. But Francis grabbed his shoulder and guided him to the right.

"Then what is it?" Francis pocketed his notebook and opened the door for the stairs labelled "Fire Escape."

"Uh, wait! I had meant nothing was wrong." Arthur held the door open, eyebrows inching together. Francis was walking up the stairs. Glancing the other way, Arthur followed.

"Are you sure?" They climbed two flights and reached another metal door. A large "2" was spray painted upon the surface.

"Of course I am!"

Francis stopped and turned towards Arthur, hand on the doorknob and an eyebrow arced. Then he looked away and opened the door. "Fine. Any questions then?"

Arthur opened his mouth. But he thought better of it. "I've been wondering about those band colours," he said instead, following Francis out into the hallway.

"Oh, they're nothing much, really. They just tell the health status of the patient. For example, green is for patients who don't have many conditions, like you and me. And the next colour up is blue for those who display cold-like symptoms."

"So… Where are yellow, red and purple on the spectrum?"

Francis stopped. Arthur, unwittingly, slowed down until he halted beside Francis. The elder man was still looking ahead, his hands inside his lab coat pockets. "The spectrum is divided into three parts: little to no care needed, moderate care needed, and extreme care needed. Yellow is the transition band from moderate care to extreme care. Red is in the extreme care. Purple… Purple is not part of the main spectrum."

Arthur tilted his head, giving Francis a bewildered expression. "Then why does Antonio need a purple band?"

A hand slammed on the top of Arthur's head and twisted. "Eavesdropping, weren't you, Arthur?" Francis said through light chuckles. "Where did your courtesy go, huh? I should reprimand such insubordination!"

"I _was_ being courteous!" Arthur fumed, glaring at Francis and swatting Francis' hand away. His face was turning red. "It wasn't my fault that Dr. Edelstein had _shouted_ it out to the world! I was being the _perfect_ gentleman!"

Francis grinned and stuck his hands into his pockets. "Sure, sure, you were." Then, he began to slow down, turning to the left and pulling out his ID card again. They stopped beside another door, not unlike all the other doors they have seen. The only difference was the little plate that said "Room 60." And like the appearance of the door, Francis went through the same routine to open it: Slide the card, punch in some random code, and watch the red lights stream from the door before it slid into the wall.

The room on the other side was almost exactly the same as the other patients'—Alfred's and Matthew's—but mostly atmosphere- and light-wise, it seemed to have all the essentials: two cabinets, two beds, two nightstands, a chair, and a bathroom, although this one was a stall rather than a separate room. However, this room was more like a square, and it was significantly larger, so things were arranged differently. Two windows, instead of one, made holes in the furthest wall, standing side-by-side above two beds with nightstands and IV drips beside them. And off to the side were the cabinets and counters lining the walls, taking up the majority of the space of the room since they were facing each other in three rows, creating a walk-in closet feel. But besides that, there was nothing else in the room, and it didn't seem to be any different from the other hospital rooms Arthur had been to. Well, that was so except for the occupants themselves. Upon seeing them, Arthur felt like his stomach had dropped down four flights of stairs. One of occupants was sitting upon a bed, curled up toes curling over the end of the mattress and fingers clutching the metal frame. He was intently staring at the other bed, where another man lied under thick, light blue blankets with head covered in a mass of curly, brown hair poking out. That man seemed to be fast asleep. And Arthur recognised both of them. They were the same Lovino and Antonio Arthur had bumped into only a day before.

"Oh, it's the French bastard and his blondie friend," Lovino hissed. A ferocious scowl traced over his face as he glared at the two. "What do ya bastards want?"

Francis slowly entered the room and Arthur followed just as the door slid closed. Something like an attempt at a disarming smile was plastered upon his face, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "We're just here for a brief check-up." Lovino's glare hardened, but Francis continued. "Don't worry. There won't be anything major. I'm just acting on Edelstein's precautions."

Lovino scoffed. "Fine." He scooted himself toward the nightstand and slammed open the drawer. There was a sound of something sifting around before he took out a brown, hardcover book about 10 centimetres thick. "Oy! Tomato bastard, wake up!" Then he whipped the book across the room; the thing flew through the air and landed with a painful _thunk_ against Antonio's head, flittering closed after tumbling onto the ground.

The body shifted and buried his head underneath the pillow and a long groan emanated from underneath the fabric. "Lovino, just five more minutes, _por favor._"

"No! Get up, you bastard! You said that 16 hours ago! Get up! Your buddy doctor is here!"

Antonio groaned again and crawled out from under the pillow and blankets and looked up at Francis, blinking blearily. His green eyes were unfocused, dilated as if he had been using some drugs. Then a large, stupid grin crept onto his face and he laughed. It was a stupid laugh, one characteristic of a fool. "_Hola_, Francis! How're you?" he asked, slurring to the point that he sounded like he had only spoken one long, outstretched word. Then he slowly turned his head and stared at Arthur. A moment of utter silence dragged itself through the room and then, suddenly, Antonio burst out laughing again. "Hey! I haven't seen that girlie before. Is she your girlfriend, Francis?"

Francis snickered as Arthur fumed with lips pressed into a thin line as he trembled to keep his temper in check. Even Lovino seemed to find this amusing for he snorted.

"She's a pretty one," Antonio continued, unaware of the reactions around him. He started to slip back into bed again, bringing the blankets up to his chin. "It's a pity though; God must not have given her breasts. She looks awfully flat."

Arthur could hear Francis sputter beside him. And that was the last straw. "I'm no _bloody girl_!" he screamed out to the world, only getting louder laughs around him. At this point, Francis was doubling over, hand over his mouth, trying desperately to hide the tell-tale sounds of his snickers.

"So, what's your name, _Niña Hermosa_?"

"Are you bloody blind _and_ deaf?"

"Settle down, Arthur. Settle down," Francis struggled to say between quick gasps, patting Arthur's shoulder. He wiped some tears from his eyes. "_Mon ami_, this is no girl. This is Arthur, and the last time he checked, he was one hundred per cent man. He's my new intern."

Antonio frowned. His head tilted to the side and he stared up at Arthur with slowly drooping eyes. "Huh… I was wondering why she wasn't dressed prettily…"

Arthur was beginning to calm down, shimmering in his hot temper as he glared at Antonio. He had no idea what was going on inside the Spaniard's strange head, but he sure knew that he didn't like it. Suddenly, he heard Francis take a sharp, shaky breath. Arthur whipped around and glared, expecting Francis to still be struggling to contain laughter. However, Francis seemed to have already gathered himself, his hand going over his face. Nevertheless, remnants of the ridicule remained; a despicable smirk was still on his face.

"All right, joke's over." Francis rubbed one of his eyes. He must have been wiping a tear. Then he took out his notepad and two pens again, ripped out a clean sheet and handed the page and a black pen to Arthur. "I'd like you to take care of Lovino while I go check on Antonio." Francis and Arthur could see Lovino's sudden scowl. "Please examine his hands for any new bruises or cuts, and please check his arms too. You'll have to do some re-bandaging. Please record any observations you make, and report to me immediately if you see any recent injuries."

Arthur nodded slowly, taking the writing utensil and the little sheet of paper.

Francis patted Arthur's shoulder and winked. "So you think you're up to the task, _Arthurette_?"

"I'm not a _bloody girl!_ How many times do I have to say that?" Arthur screamed. His feet slammed downwards, attempting to stomp on Francis' foot. Unfortunately, Francis had skipped away and Arthur merely hit the ground like a child with a tantrum. So with a growl and a frown, Arthur marched up to Lovino, who only gave a disapproving glare and a grimace as Arthur approached, further fouling the intern's mood.

Without any courteous words that could possibly soothe his relationship with Lovino, Arthur plopped down onto the bed and barked out his demand, "Give me your hands."

Lovino crossed his arms across his chest. "Why should I? You never apologised for yesterday."

"This again?"

Lovino turned away with a huff, nose pointed up and his eyes closed.

Arthur let out a long sigh. He had wished that Antonio and Lovino would drop the incident from the day before. It seemed that Antonio had easily dropped it when he thought Arthur was a woman, but that seemed not to be the case for Lovino. With a growl, Arthur spat, "Fine. I apologise for my earlier behaviour."

The brown-haired boy peered from one eyelid. "And?"

One of Arthur's eyebrows twitched. "And I have learnt not to block the hallways." The words came out a low, offended growl. He hated bowing down to such an arrogant brat, but he did want to complete what was assigned to him by his superior. And he much preferred if his patient was compliant.

"Good enough. Bastard."

Then Lovino held out his hands and the examination went on in a tense silence. What Arthur ended up seeing was nothing he had expected. Scars were scattered all over Lovino's hands, drawing jagged lines and dots up and down and around his fingers and palms. Strange, pale markings dotted the back of his hands, where Arthur could clearly see the blood vessels popping up around the knuckles. And the skin that wrapped tightly around thin muscle was dry, almost scaly to the touch, but nothing that some lotion couldn't solve. Arthur wrote that down; he figured Francis would like to know about that. But what really threw Arthur of were Lovino's fingertips. The boy had no fingerprints. Arthur stared for a moment, alarmed. Hesitantly, he picked up his pen again. He figured that the note would be old news to Francis, but he wrote it down anyway. Afterwards, he moved onto looking at Lovino's arms.

Throughout the whole time, Arthur could hear Antonio's and Francis' conversation behind them. They talked like old friends and were relatively loud too, as if they didn't care that two other people could easily listen to them through the silence. Arthur tried to block out their voices, not meaning to eavesdrop, but he couldn't seem to help himself when Antonio's and Francis' voices were the only ones talking.

"Do you remember getting angry at anybody yesterday?" That was Francis. Accompanying his words were a few clicks and a shrill beep.

"Angry? When was I angry? Did something happen?" There was another click.

"Uh, no, not really." Another shrill beep. And then the sound of something whirling, like a fan's panels. "But do you remember meeting any new people?"

"Of course! I'm always meeting new people!"

"Well, I mean, particularly a blond man with green eyes. A bit shorter than you are. Wearing a suit. You met him when Lovino was yelling at him. Ring any bells?" A few more clicks.

"No… Was Lovino being rude?"

The sound of pen scratching against paper.

"It's nothing you need to worry about," was Francis' response.

"Okay."

Lovino's scowl deepened and his eyes pointed downwards. For a moment, Arthur's stomach clenched, but he said nothing. Slowly, he began to unwrap the bandages, careful to leave the IV needle in place. The arms, in general, seemed fine. Old wounds ran up and down Lovino's forearms, and a few marks and scars covered the rest of his skin. But they seemed to be healing nicely—no infections, no puss, no blood, nothing alarming. There was a large bruise on his right arm near the elbow, but it appeared old, turning a faint yellow shade. So Arthur didn't bother to note that down.

Finally, Arthur stood up, spotting a roll of bandages on the nightstand. He reached out and retrieved it and then began to rewrap Lovino's arms, making sure they appeared to be the same a moment before.

"Antonio, I have heard that you aren't eating enough." It was Francis again. His voice was raised, almost purposefully to allow everybody else to hear. Lovino sagged.

"What? I've been eating enough. I'm not hungry." The words became increasingly slurred and quiet.

Lovino grumbled something, but Arthur couldn't hear because he was much more focused on making sure the bandages were secure and comfortable.

"Don't lie to me. I'm conducting an examination. Do you actually think that I can't interpret the numbers?"

Antonio said nothing.

Francis sighed. "Look, I'm not going to force you to do anything. But at this rate, your condition will deteriorate and then we'll have to take a replacement.

Lovino took a sharp breath. His eyes were wide and he was holding his breath. Arthur looked up at Lovino's face, but he didn't know how to interpret it.

"And Lovino is the only possible replace—"

A loud crash resounded. Antonio shouted and Francis grunted as something hit the ground with a painful thump and clatter. Immediately, Lovino looked up and Arthur leapt onto his feet, eyes wide at the scene before him. Portable medical instruments were scattered across the room, and Antonio's blue blankets were slipping off the bed and onto the floor. The IV stand was leaning, dragged down by a taut IV tube. The two men were on the floor: Francis was on his back, looking up with dazed, blue eyes with his hands on Antonio's forearms and a thumb pressing against the IV needle; Antonio was on top of Francis, his hands curling around Francis' collar as Antonio shook the blond.

"Don't you _ever_ think of doing that!" Antonio demanded, voice clicking with sharp articulation. His mouth was pulled into a ferocious frown and anger flickered in the green eyes. "You _heces_ will _never_ touch Lovino! _Never_!"

Arthur raised his hand to slam down on the call button.

"Stop!"

And Arthur froze. He looked at the two men on the floor, frightened by his own hesitation.

Francis gasped, blinking tears and confusion from his eyes. "Antonio, I apologise for saying that. I shouldn't have said that. It wasn't right of me," he sputtered.

Antonio's eyelids began to droop and his grip loosened. But suddenly, he snapped back into full attention, clenching his fists tighter around the white and blue clothes.

"Look, I don't want to pull Lovino into this either. But I might have to." Francis gulped, calming himself to speak more clearly. "So just eat more. It will be better for you and Lovino, and we won't need to replace you with him. Okay?"

Antonio's green eyes softened. Slowly, his hands let go of Francis' coat. "Fine."

The blond man smiled. "Good. Now let's get back up, shall we?"

"And go back to sleep…"

And Antonio collapsed. Francis shot an arm out, catching the tipping IV stand and Antonio. Luckily, Francis was already underneath Antonio so catching him was easy, and Francis managed to hold the stand before it could clatter to the floor. Peering over his forehead at Arthur, Francis asked, with a simper, "Hey, mind helping here?"

Arthur scowled. "And you say that I get into trouble?" he snapped, walking over and slipping his arms underneath Antonio and pulling the unconscious man up. Antonio seemed to be abnormally light, but with what Francis and Edelstein had said, Arthur was not that surprised. Quickly, Francis scrambled onto his feet as well to help, righting the IV stand back up, but Arthur handled himself well and managed to push Antonio back into bed without much assistance.

From there, Francis took over, adjusting Antonio so the man would be tucked in and comfortable. "Lovino, I trust you to take care of Antonio, right?" he called, pulling on the pillow so the cushion would be under Antonio's head rather than underneath his back. Then he reached down and pulled the blankets back over Antonio's body.

"Whatever."

"Good. And you'll make sure to call immediately if something is wrong?"

Lovino jumped onto his bed. The springs creaked underneath his weight. "What do you think you are? My mum?"

"Of course not. Of course not." Francis hurriedly began to pick up all the instruments off the floor, shoving them into his pockets as he went along. Arthur took that as a cue to help as well, so he grabbed as many things as possible before handing them back to Francis. When Arthur picked up the piece of paper, two pens, and Francis' notepad, Francis only took his own notepad and told Arthur to keep the rest, so the intern slipped those into his own pockets. Without another word, Francis led Arthur out the door.

Arthur glanced back. Lovino was glaring at their backs, arms crossed over his chest. The last thing Arthur saw was Lovino scrambling onto his feet as the door slid closed. Then Arthur turned to look ahead again.

A hand grabbed Arthur's shoulder, and he stopped. Francis leant towards the intern, whispering with a hissing voice into the boy's ear, "Don't pull a stunt like that."

Arthur blinked, confusion washing over his face. "Pull what?" he blurted.

Francis pushed Arthur to continue walking. "What I just did. I don't want you acting on my example."

A frown stretched across Arthur's face, and he looked to the right at Francis. "What? Why?"

Blue eyes glanced at Arthur. Evident frustration flashed over Francis' face, but was pushed aside as Francis leant over again, hand still resting on Arthur's shoulder. "Don't push Antonio, and don't lose your temper around either him or Lovino. I know it will be hard for you and they will try your patience, but you won't be able to handle Antonio effectively, and I don't want you to be—"

Arthur pushed Francis aside, anger boiling red like his face. "Are you saying I'm incompetent?" he exclaimed loud enough for several heads to turn to their direction.

Francis sighed, shaking his head. "No, I never said that. I merely said you won't have the ability to deal with Antonio, and I don't want you to accept any assignments involving him or Lovino. They are too dangerous for you to handle without my supervision—"

"Oh, so you _are_ saying I'm incompetent."

"No, I never said that. I just said that you don't have the ability—"

"That's _synonymous_ with incompetence!" Arthur fumed, his hands curling into fists.

"Fine, I'm saying that you're incompetent then. But I want you to listen to me—"

Arthur threw his hands into the air, exasperated. "That's _all_ I have been doing around you! Watching and listening! And then suddenly you call me incompetent? Well, _of course_ I would seem to be if you don't let me _do anything_!"

Francis clicked his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head. "That's because of the situation right now—"

"Oh, so what's the _bloody situation_ then? Pray tell."

"That's confidential information," Francis replied, voice flat.

"More confidential information!" Arthur screamed. People around them started to file away, getting as far away from the scene that Francis seemed to be desperately trying to control but failing. "So what can I do then? Given in this _confidential_ situation?"

Francis bit his lip, pausing for a moment. Then he fished his notepad out, flipped it to the latest page, and handed it to Arthur. "I want you to calculate TFG using the Fundamental Beilschmidt Method of Statistics. DE should be u, C should be x, WFR should be y, and this number—" he pointed at a number written beside a word created by symbols from some foreign language "—should be your v, using Level 4 and Level 7 versions with the k as 8.765. I want you to do the method at least three times to check for mistakes, and then send you answer from my tablet in my desk to Edelstein. If Level 4 turns out to be between 765.98 and 986, send Ludwig a message to tell him to change ES-606's band to yellow. However, if Level 7 turns out to be lower than 2, then request a purple band for ES-606." Francis slipped the notepad into Arthur's hand and patted the intern's shoulder. "I am sure you will complete this with shining accuracy."

Arthur's scowl deepened. Francis was obviously trying to humour him by giving such a minor task; however, Arthur knew that it was much better than what Francis had given him earlier. So Arthur took it, glancing over the numbers. "So what does TFG, DE, C, WFR mean?"

Francis' smile disappeared. "That's also confidential information."

Arthur threw the notepad to the ground. "_Again_? It's _always_ confidential information with you! You _never_ answer my questions!"

Francis wavered, swaying slightly. "I do."

"Fine! Then tell me, what experimental series are Antonio and Lovino in?"

"Confidential."

"What did you give Matthew? The red liquid? What was that and what does it do?"

"Confidential."

Arthur growled. "Fine then. Then answer my most important question: How well do you treat your patients?"

Francis paused, then shook his head. "I cannot answer that—"

"See? You _never_ answer my questions! You're _bloody hiding_ something, aren't you?" Arthur glared down at Francis, gritting his teeth in frustration. Francis did not answer. Instead, he just stood there, holding himself up like some sort of soldier under inspection. His expression was painfully flat and revealed nothing that Arthur could read. Suddenly, an idea hit Arthur, and it hurt him. "You know what? I see what's going on," he said, voice lowering in volume but increasing in intensity. "They're human weapons, aren't they? Alfred and Matthew?"

Francis sucked in a sharp breath.

Arthur pointed. "_Ah-hah_! I should have known! I should have known right when Matthew asked me to save them! You're creating _weapons_ of _war_ out of _children_! And Antonio and Lovino are both part of that and that's why they're 'dangerous'!"

"No, you don't understand," Francis replied quietly.

"I understand full well!"

"No, you don't. You see, it's my jurisdiction and they are—"

"Oh! So your _jurisdiction_ is human weapons! You _specialise _in creating _murderers_ out of _children_!"

"No, you don't understand. Arthur, let me explain—"

"I understand completely," Arthur snapped. He bent and picked up the notepad from the floor. "I understand completely that I absolutely _loathe_ working with you." He could hear Francis take another sharp breath and shift his feet. Then Arthur waved the notepad in from of Francis' face, talking in a plain, painfully indifferent tone, "I will finish what you assigned me, and I am done. I _may_ be seeing you tomorrow. Possibly." Then he turned and walked away.

Francis paused for a moment, wavering between decisions. Suddenly, he took a step forward in the direction where Arthur went, but he stopped. With shaking hands, Francis reached behind his head and brought the hand into his line of vision. Then he sighed, turned, and walked in the opposite direction. He needed to find his doctor.

Meanwhile, Arthur was in Francis' office. He had finished all the calculations, and checked everything about five times, making sure he had followed Francis' direction to the exact number. In the end, the answer when he used the Level 4 method was over 10,000, shooting far higher than the range Francis had specified. And Level 7 method—that answer was no better. The statistic was almost negligible, closing into 0 and creeping into the negative. The numbers made Arthur's heart clench in the most uncomfortable way. He didn't know what they actually meant, but he knew quite well that they weren't normal, and he feared that Francis knew that they weren't.

Hesitantly, Arthur retrieved the electronic tablet sitting on a pile of cosmetics in the top drawer of Francis' desk. The technology wasn't on, so Arthur flipped the switch on the edge. The screen immediately flooded with colours and swirls, shaping the words "Hello, Dr. Francis Bonnefoy" with beautiful calligraphy. Then a message box popped up, prompting Arthur to type in a password. The intern frowned. Francis never told him about a password. And to make matters worse, the symbols on the keypad were nothing that Arthur was able to interpret. However, they were oddly familiar; in fact, they were the same things as what Arthur had seen on Francis' notepad as a label for the number he used for v. On impulse, Arthur typed that in. In a split moment, the box disappeared and another message box appeared, flashing the screen from black to bright blue. This box said, in white letters, "Welcome back, Dr. Bonnefoy. You have 349 new messages." Arthur blinked, surprised. Then he flicked the screen, and the box disappeared and an interface of a messaging system slid in. The latest message was two years old and was from Dr. Roderick Edelstein, who was asking if Francis had gotten a report. Obviously, Francis didn't reply, and Arthur was not going to reply for him.

But curiosity tugged on Arthur's mind. He was tempted to open Francis' messages and scan them. He wanted all his questions answered, especially to the ones Francis had only replied with, "Confidential information." However, hesitation got the best of him. In the end, he didn't want to know anything Francis was doing; they were probably all disgusting anyway. So Arthur sent a brief message to Ludwig requesting a purple hospital band for "ES-606," put the tablet away, and walked out the door. Arthur didn't bother to look back.


	8. Law 3

**Hiya, Hikou no Kokoro back with another update. Luckily, this chapter was finished shortly after the last chapter was posted, and it's very, very fast-paced. However, the next chapter won't be the case. I'm having a seriously bad Writer's Block on how I'm going to go about the next chapter. I might make it another Theory Chapter (Y'know, those short chapters that are vaguely in first person, for those who haven't figured it out yet). Nevertheless, the next chapter might take a while to get up.**

**But anyway, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia. _It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I just own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"It's better to have a thousand enemies outside of the tent than one inside the tent."  
—Arabic Proverb

"Law 3: Replacements"

Arthur slammed his hands upon the desk. "I am absolutely sure that I cannot work with Mr. Bonnefoy any longer," he repeated. "Why can't you just reassign me to someone else? Switch people up?"

Ludwig sighed, leaning back in his chair and fiddling with the cap of his pen. "I'm sorry, Kirkland, but I just can't do that. We assign mentors by our judgement from your references and your ability, and we truly do believe that Mr. Bonnefoy is the most suitable to be your mentor. We can't just find someone who would fit to your personal requirements without, as you say, 'frustrating you.'"

Arthur leaned over the desk, glaring. All thoughts of courtesy had long since been thrown out the window of his mind. "I can take any mentor! Just anybody other than Bonnefoy! I am fully capable to adapting to any teachers; I have worked under the direction of many varieties of teaching methods. I think this would not be any different."

The older, blond man shook his head. "It's not that simple either." His blue eyes looked downwards for a moment, and then shot up to make eye contact. "I am completely confident in your abilities, but there are other factors as well." Then he stood up with a groan. The sound seemed to be more out of exasperation than exhaustion. "Look, you graduated much earlier than your time; in fact, you didn't even complete your last year before the university passed you onto us. And I congratulate you on that, and it just goes to show how talented you truly are."

Arthur frowned. A small feeling tugged on his side, and he didn't like it. His green eyes flashed with scepticism as his gaze followed Ludwig as the man walked around the room with his hands behind his back.

"But because of that, you were added on the list of interns at a weird time, and most mentors are still busy taking care of the interns they were assigned almost four months ago or a year ago." Ludwig stopped beside the desk. He stood with a stock firmness, as if he were some sort of ancient tree planted on the ground beside his work station to overlook all the papers. "And Francis is one of the only free assimilation officers due to the circumstance of Vargas. And I do prefer that we do not interrupt an internship term in order to switch mentors, thus throwing interns into another new environment and possibly forcing them to start all over again."

Arthur sighed, drooping until he fell back into his seat. "I see…" His scowl deepened. For an odd reason, he felt that he had been lied to throughout the whole session with Ludwig. "Then are there any free assimilation officers though?"

Ludwig fell silent. Wordlessly, he turned and sat behind his computer again. And then his fingers flew over the keys again, and he clicked a few times on the track pad. "There are two free assimilation officers. The first one is Kiku Honda."

"May I be assigned to him instead?"

"That wouldn't be prudent," was Ludwig's immediate answer. He didn't even bother to think twice. "Kiku Honda has never taught before, and he recently completed his training to be an assimilation officer." He peered over the monitor. "You'll easily work ahead of him."

Arthur pressed his lips together. From the sound of it, that didn't seem to be all too terrible. Of course not as ideal, but tolerable. Much more tolerable than Francis.

"And the second one is Sadık Adnan. But I don't think that's a good idea either."

Upon hearing the name, Arthur leaned forward. "How so?" he asked. He could almost hear Alfred's preposterous superstitions resounding through his head. How laughable.

"First of all, he's in an entirely different department, and he does no research."

Arthur quickly disregarded that warning. In the end, he didn't care where he ended up in BCWD, as long as he was working with all the prestigious staff. He didn't mind going into another department and working as some sort of anaesthesiologist or doctor or something.

"And second of all, he hasn't taken in any interns since six years ago. He has refused to take any interns at all."

"So you're saying that he might be incompetent in teaching as well?"

Ludwig took a sharp breath, and then he sighed. "No. I just mean that he would refuse you, and you won't have a chance to even get him as a mentor." Then he turned back to the monitor. A sheen of blue light lit up Ludwig's face. "In addition, I don't think you'll like his teaching methods either."

"How so?"

"His last intern was Francis Bonnefoy. You can probably guess the implications."

Arthur sat there for a moment, slowly taking the information in. He straightened up and clasped his hands on his lap. His gaze glanced left and right. Then he opened his mouth, but he closed it again. In truth, in one sad, sad truth, Arthur did not understand the implications. But he decided to reveal none of that. Instead, he stood up, stiff as the courteous gentleman that he should have been during the whole meeting. "Is it possible that I can switch to either Honda or Adnan?" he asked.

Ludwig rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yes, it is. But only if you can persuade them, and they'd probably make the arrangements. I have no real decision in the assignments of the assimilation officers."

And that was the answer Arthur had been poking around for. Inwardly, he grinned with triumph; he had every chance of getting rid of that annoying Bonnefoy off his back and start doing some real assignments and getting real answers to his questions. And most of all, Arthur wouldn't need to help Francis in whatever shady deeds his jurisdiction had called for. In every way, that was Arthur's happiness. So with a quick thank you, Arthur turned and walked out the door, going towards whomever he would meet first, either Kiku Honda or Sadık Adnan.

On his way out, Arthur saw Feliciano still sitting at his computer. The brunette was either enjoying his work or goofing off with something, since a large grin was spread across his face. But it was very likely that it was the latter cause. Dr. Edelstein stood at the corner of the room. He was staring at Arthur as the intern got out, mindlessly tapping his finger on an electronic tablet. As Arthur passed, he shot the doctor a polite smile and apologised for taking up some time from Dr. Edelstein's own talk with Ludwig. However, the black-haired man merely nodded and wordlessly walked into the office. So Arthur let the smile slip as he walked out into the hallways in search for either Kiku Honda or Sadık Adnan.

Luckily, it did not take much effort to find whoever this Kiku Honda was. Arthur was able to ask the people walking down the hallways, and they almost unanimously told him that Honda was in his office, which was on the other end of the building. A few people had replied that the rookie assimilation officer was in the area of the Land Control Facility, and the first person Arthur had asked told him that Honda was in the Medical facility. However, they did not matter, and Arthur presumed that they had not seen Honda walking through the hallways for quite some time. Thus, he walked in the direction to the opposite end of the building.

The walk was a long one, since the building was as wide as it was tall. And once Arthur reached to the edge, he realised that he needed to travel up two floors. But instead of taking the elevators, he took the stairways. With the amount of people waiting next to the glowing button, the elevator probably would take more time than simply taking the emergency stairway. And he was right. In only a few moments, Arthur was on the floor of his destination, and people were still waiting. But of course, Arthur didn't bother to check if his predictions were right. He just turned and went straight to Honda's office.

When he arrived to his destination, he took in a deep breath, straightening himself out. The plate nailed into the metal door was silvery; however, no name was carved into it. But he was sure that he was at the right one, if the little office number said anything. Then he knocked.

"Yes?" a voice called out, quiet and polite. "You may enter."

Then Arthur entered. The room was plain. But so were all the other rooms in the BCWD. No, instead this room was agonizingly plain, or, as many people would say, empty. Only a desk and a shelf-less bookshelf provided the room any décor or furniture at all. There wasn't even a window to provide additional colours to the dull white of the walls. At a corner stood an Asian man with a box in his hands and a stack at his feet. He smiled at Arthur and greeted with a quiet "hello" and a small bow. Unlike many other BCWD staff members, he did not wear the uniform of scrubs and lab coat. Instead, he wore casual khaki pants and a silky white dress shirt, but no tie. And his dark brown, almost borderline pitch black, hair was cut into a curt, bowl shape with fringes just touching his eyebrows and the back of his neck. An air of stiff formality radiated off of the man, disconcerting Arthur only slightly with the look of unreadable, brown eyes.

"Uh, hello," Arthur greeted with an awkward wave. "I am Arthur Kirkland." He stood there for a moment, and then he approached the Asian man and held out a hand.

"Ah, Mr. Kirkland, it is a pleasure to meet you." The man set down the box he was carrying and bowed again. "I am Kiku Honda."

"Oh, yes, it's a pleasure to meet you too." Arthur let his hand slide back to his side.

"May I help you?" Kiku asked. He seemed to have a heavy accent lacing his articulation. But Arthur couldn't quite place it. From his past experience with Asians, he figured that it was a mixture of either Chinese and Japanese or Korean and Chinese.

"Um, yes, yes, actually." Arthur felt much too tall in front of the small Asian man, who only reached up to Arthur's chest. He was tempted to bend himself at the knees so then the height difference would be smaller, but that would be quite rude. "I would like to ask you if you would be willing to teach me."

Kiku's eyes widened slightly. But then he smiled. "Of course. So you are a new intern, yes, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur smiled back. "Yes, I am. I recently graduated from BCWD University."

"Ah, I see. You have graduated quite early. Congratulations. It will be an absolute honour to work with you."

"Thank you." Arthur began to relax. His shoulders lowered. "I am sure that working with you as well will be a pleasure."

"Oh, no, do not say that." Kiku shook his head. "You will be my first intern. I do not think I will be errorless."

"I'm aware. But nobody is errorless, so don't worry about it."

The Asian man hesitated for a moment. Afterwards, he nodded. "Thank you." Then he turned and picked up the box again. "I shall do the paperwork and make arrangements for you in a moment. First, I must finish packing."

Arthur inwardly cheered. Honda seemed to have the perfect personality and outlook, acting out of careful tact and proper opinions. He was so much unlike the "despicable" Francis Bonnefoy, who didn't hesitate to even think before doing something. In every way, Arthur had scored a jackpot. He was finally getting away from that Bonnefoy, and trading off to learn under a much better teacher. Sure, Honda was obviously new to the duties of the assimilation officer, but Arthur was certain that Honda would adapt within a month, given by Honda's persona.

With a widening smile, Arthur reached out to Kiku for the box. "Oh, let me help you," he offered.

"No, it is fine." Kiku turned and pulled the box out of Arthur's reach.

"No, I insist. It's the least that I could do, since you're the one doing the papers. Besides, it would take less time if I were helping you."

His smile slipped slightly and his eyes twitched up and down, presumably to look at Arthur and then the box. He chewed his lip, and then sighed. "Fine, thank you very much, Mr. Kirkland," he said, handing the box to Arthur.

Arthur took it, quite satisfied with himself. At first he figured that the Asian man would prefer silence, much like Arthur himself. So then he would stay quiet and not strike up any conversation, particularly intruding ones. But as he watched Kiku bend over and take up another box, curiosity got the best of him. "So what are you packing?" he asked.

"My items." Kiku straightened up with a painful groan. His back must have been too tired for this work; Arthur was quite glad that he had offered to help, if that was the case. "I suggest you packing your own items soon as well. Preferably tomorrow or the day after."

Arthur's brow furrowed. "Wait, what for?"

"I am being re-stationed to Eastern Branch, Sector 234 of Area 2." Kiku shifted on his feet. "Is there a problem?"

Arthur's grin was quickly replaced by a frown. "Will I have to be re-stationed as well?"

"Why, of course. My job would be impossible over a great distance."

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn't expected anything like that. If he had known, then he would have reconsidered. After all, he couldn't just _leave_ the World Domain capital. His brother still lived in Central, and Arthur certainly could not leave an invalid man to his own devices while Arthur himself ran off to some unknown sector of the World Domain. Of course, Arthur could always bring Alistair along. However, Alistair would be absolutely furious in moving. He was comfortable in Central, and he wasn't one to adapt to somewhere else, especially if his veteran benefits lived in Central. The small amount of support the government gave would leave as quickly as Arthur and Alistair could leave the capital. There was a possibility to transfer the benefits over, but that would cost resources, and who knew what would be taken away? But of course, Arthur was simply being difficult. He had an entirely different reason on why he was hesitant to leave. His dream lied in Central, sitting upon the roof of the BCWD campus. All his life, he had dreamt of working in BCWD and BCWD only. He didn't want to work in one of the willy-nilly branches near the border or the shorelines. Ever since he got into BCWD University, it was "BCWD or bust." His green eyes darted left and right; they must have been searching for answers written on the décor. But he couldn't find any. Chewing his lip, he glanced back up at Kiku.

"Should I have mentioned that earlier?"

Arthur jumped. "Uh, yes—I mean, no. It's all right." He gulped. "The problem is… I don't think I can leave Central. For many reasons."

"Ah, I see." The Asian man paused for a brief moment, staring at the top of the box. Then he looked up again and smiled. "Well, no matter. If the move is inconvenient for you, then there is no need.

Hope flashed through green eyes.

"I am sure that the authorities will be able to find a proper mentor for you. There are plenty here in Central, and I am confident that they will find one competent and fitting enough to be able to teach you."

Arthur sighed. The brief moment of victory was gone, blown away. All was left of the promise was the box in his hands. "Well, nevertheless, I will help you," Arthur said.

"Yes, thank you." Kiku adjusted his grip on the box in his hands. "We will be travelling to the parking lot. But first we can move all the stuff outside my office."

The intern nodded and turned. "All right then." The directions sounded easy enough. He figured that, with the small number of boxes on the ground, he and Kiku would be able to complete the task easily within twenty or thirty minutes. And then when they were done, he could move onto searching for his next option, Sadık Adnan. Unfortunately, the compatibility he had found in Kiku may not be there in Sadık.

"But wait."

Arthur stopped and peeked over his shoulder.

"You did say that you are Arthur _Kirkland,_ yes?"

His large eyebrows inched together again. "Yes, yes, I did introduce myself as such."

Kiku began to frown. His own littler eyebrows inched together, furrowing his brow. "Do you work as a waiter in a Chinese restaurant?"

The intern turned. His instinct became increasingly disconcerted as the questions streamed from the Asian man; however, he didn't understand why. "Yes. I do."

"And is your boss named Yao Wang?"

"Yes."

All of the sudden, Kiku set down the box and instead took Arthur's. Eye contact had been broken, and Kiku's brown eyes were aimed downwards. "You are dismissed," he said. "I can handle all of this on my own."

Arthur was shocked by the reaction. His mouth hung open and his hands were empty of any burdens at all. For some odd reason, humiliation coursed through his veins. Once again, he felt like he was standing before Francis, who refused to give him anything at all. "Wait, why?"

"I shall not trouble you with my own duties," Kiku replied. He shifted his grip on the box, but not his gaze from the ground.

Arthur reached out again, trying to take hold of the box again. "No, it's not trouble for me. I can help."

Kiku pulled the box away. "Tell Wang _good luck_."

"Mr. Honda, I don't understand this change in attitude. Please explain this to me."

"I apologise for my lack of consideration. You are dismissed."

"Oh, but Mr. Honda…"

"You are dismissed."

Arthur let his hands drop to his side, frowning with complete and utter confusion. "Yes, sir," he said and then turned around and left the room. Kiku had insisted that he could handle everything himself. Unfortunately, a gnawing feeling coursed throughout Arthur's self, and he simply did not understand why Kiku had decided that his answers to peculiar questions about his second job would warrant such a cold dismissal. But there had to be a reason, right? This was BCWD, and everything had a reason behind it. Well, all except Francis, who remained unreasonable. And that was why Arthur hated that blond man so much. So at least Arthur had the dignity to leave everything at that, and moved onto his next target: Sadık Adnan.

Unfortunately, Sadık was a harder man to find than Kiku was. When Arthur asked around, nearly half of the people gave him a strange expression or had merely shrugged the question off, saying, "I don't know." And another chunk of people had told him, "I don't know. He seems to just appear and disappear. Maybe if you walk around aimlessly, then you'll probably find him eventually." The advice was nice, but it did not help. The only person who did give him a straight answer was Elizaveta, the guard at the Medical Centre. But of course, she didn't know where Sadık was, and her initial response was a raised eyebrow and a suspicious frown. She just said that he wasn't in the Centre and he was guaranteed to be in the main headquarters. And if he wasn't, then Arthur would just need to find one of the staff in the Humane Control and he or she would know where that "freaky" man was.

Luckily, or unluckily, Arthur did not need to hunt down other members of the Humane Control department. Instead he found the man walking down the hallways. Sadık did not seem pleased; he was chewing his thumb—he looked quite strange as he did so because of his mask—while he used his other thumb to flick through the screens on a tablet. Arthur hated to interrupt the man with whatever he was doing, but Arthur had to do it sooner or later, and he preferred to get his job done when he knew where exactly the enigmatic man was.

So Arthur inched after Sadık and tapped the broad shoulder. "Excuse me, Mr. Adnan?"

Sadık peered over his shoulder, giving an unreadable look at Arthur. It was almost as if he didn't know what to think of the little, blond intern. Nevertheless, he grinned and turned. "Hi, Arthur, what do you need?"

"Uh, I would like to make a proposition with you," Arthur said carefully. He couldn't help himself from twiddling his thumbs before Sadık.

"Yeah? Make it quick though." He held up his tablet with its screen still flashing with a white message box and a few little notifications popping up from the side. "I have lots of work to do."

"Yes, of course." Arthur took a deep breath, looking up at Sadık. The tanned man was easily at least a head taller he was. "I was wondering if you would be willing to become my mentor instead of Bonnefoy."

Immediately the grin turned into a frown. "Why? I thought Francis is perfect for your level."

Arthur sighed. He was tempted to scratch his head and duck to avoid eye contact with the blank, frowning face, but he forced himself against the temptation. "You see, Bonnefoy and I… Our personalities clash too often…" Swallowing spiteful words against Francis, he continued, "And I would like to switch to you."

Oddly enough, the frown deepened to a scowl. "Well, sorry, buddy, but if you can't handle Francis, then I doubt you would be able to handle me. I don't know if you realise this or not, but he was my intern once upon a time, and I wouldn't doubt that my teaching methods and personality have rubbed off on him."

"Yes, I do realise that, but that's not what I meant." Arthur bit his lip. "Anyway, I would also like to switch departments as well, so that's why I'm asking you as well." That was only partly a lie.

Sadık tucked his tablet under his arm. His forehead wrinkled a bit, and an end of an eyebrow peeked over his white mask. "Sorry, buddy, but I don't take any interns anymore. And all the officers in my department are already busy with others. I don't think you'll be able to get into this department. The only way you'd have a chance to work in this department is through an SEP specialised assimilation officer, and the only one open is Francis."

Arthur's shoulders drooped.

Sadık sighed, his broad shoulders also drooping. He seemed to stare at Arthur, glancing up and down. But he didn't look like he was. His mask was staring at Arthur. Suddenly, a grin broke on his face and Sadık slapped a heavy hand on Arthur's shoulder, startling the blond back into attention. "But don't worry! I know a way out of the system!"

"W-what?" Arthur sputtered.

"There's this guy—top dog—who coordinates all the mentor-intern stuff. If you can somehow persuade the guy to switch you, then there's no doubt that you'll get it."

Arthur looked back up, making eye contact with Sadık's mask. "Really?"

"Yeah! He just got back from his trip to the SS. So I bet he's in his office right now—real easy to find. Room number 2 or something like that." Sadık cut the air with his other hand as he said that. "Talk to him, okay, buddy? Name's Gilbert Beilschmidt."

Arthur nodded. Inwardly, he frowned. He knew that name much too well. That time when Gilbert bullied Arthur in his office was unforgettable, and Arthur held a secret grudge against that Beilschmidt. So Arthur was a bit hesitant to walk back to that office and encounter the "dreamer-hater" once more. But he sort of had to, didn't he? He couldn't get Kiku, who was moving away to another sector and who seemed to have suddenly developed a secret animosity that Arthur didn't know about against him, and Sadık had shot him down without any hesitation at all. The only way to get around anything was Gilbert Beilschmidt, wasn't it?

So with a long sigh, Arthur thanked Sadık, who smiled and nodded back in acknowledgement before turning back around to complete whatever he was doing, and walked in the direction he had become familiar with after his little "adventure" with Francis two days before. The journey from that end of the building, down a number of flights of stairs, and to Gilbert's room—it was actually labelled five, not two—had been his shortest. Well, it felt like it was the shortest, but only because Arthur didn't spend so much time searching for his target. Thus, instead of readying himself with a possibly another strained encounter as he walked down the hallway, he did so at the door, breathing in heavily before knocking on the door.

"Hello?" the gruff, accented voice called from the other side.

"Hello, Mr. Beilschmidt. This is Arthur Kirkland," the intern called back. He had not been given permission to enter, so he decided to talk through the metal door. "I would like to speak to you."

"I can't hear you, man! Just come in! Do I really have to say that?"

"Yes…" Arthur muttered under his breath. But of course, Gilbert wouldn't have heard that as Arthur slid the door open.

The room was exactly the same as it was two days ago. The books were in the same state, leaning against each other in a disorderly fashion, and the picture frame once again rested face-down on the bottommost shelf to collect dust. Gilbert even sat the same way at his desk with his feet propped up on his paperwork. The only difference was that two things were missing. The blue hat and the "Black Eagle" rifle were gone. And Gilbert didn't greet the newcomer with a smile, as he did when Francis had towed Arthur along. Instead, Gilbert shot Arthur a disgusted scowl, one end of his snake-like mouth stretching too far to the left. And there was no "How are you?" or anything like that.

Gilbert nodded towards Arthur. "What do you want?" he barked. His feet slid off his desk and hit the ground with a pair of _thumps_. "I figure you're not here to apologise for your insubordination two days before."

Arthur opened his mouth then closed it back up. A scowl made its way onto his face, just as how he made his way over to Gilbert's desk. Of course, Gilbert had been right; Arthur would never pass in an apology, especially when he felt that Gilbert had wronged him, not the other way around. But he knew that he had to tread carefully if he were to ever hope to persuade Gilbert into anything. "Yes, I am not here to apologise," Arthur replied, standing before the man in uniform. "I am here to ask you something."

A long, thin and angular eyebrow arched up. "Is that so?" Gilbert said condescendingly, looking up at Arthur from his chair. "You know that I'm inclined to say no right now, right?"

Arthur's scowl deepened. "Yes, I do realise that." He paused for a moment as he made unwavering eye contact with Gilbert in an attempt to stare Gilbert down. It was no wonder that Gilbert and Ludwig were brothers; they had the same exact eyes. However, Gilbert's were a much lighter shade. They held the tint similar to Alfred's. Arthur had a hard time staring Gilbert down, and he didn't succeed. So he continued, "I would like to request changing to another mentor."

Gilbert shot to his feet. "_What_?" The chair behind him was rolling and spinning a few centimetres behind him.

"I would like to switch to the direction of another assimilation officer."

"I _know_ what you said!" Gilbert slammed his gloved hands upon the wood. "I'm asking you _what_ makes you think you have _any_ right to request a change?"

Arthur shot Gilbert a patronising look, raising his chin so he may look down at a man who was at least two or three centimetres taller. "I do not believe that _your_ decision in internship assignment is _prudent_."

Gilbert's hand slid against the desk surface. Pens and other items clattered to the ground, and small, loose note-pad pages flitted through the air. Arthur flinched. "_What_ makes you _question_ my decision?"

"The incompatibility I have to face with Bonnefoy as my mentor." Arthur's tone turned flat. He didn't want Gilbert to hear him waver. "He refuses to answer my questions, allow me to participate in assignments, and acknowledge any of my abilities to work and learn."

Suddenly, Gilbert slapped a hand to his forehead. His laughter was sharp and serpentine, stirred with the condescension of a victorious, insensitive soldier. "Hah! The ungrateful child doesn't even realise that he's being babied! This is _hilarious_!"

Arthur's eyebrows inched together. Shock and rage boiled within his stomach; his frown became a thin line. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Gilbert leaned over the desk, a spiteful smirk spreading across his face. He hissed, "Francis _knows_ your limits, and, to tell you the truth, they're _below par._"

Arthur too slammed his hands onto the desk and he leant closer to Gilbert, challenging Gilbert's terrible smile with his growling scowl. "I am _not_ 'below par'! I have graduated top of my class throughout my years, and I have completed BCWD University from a scholarship only one out of trillions can ever achieve! If _you_ want to know the actual _truth_, Bonnefoy is the one who is _misjudging_ my ability."

A short chortle bubbled up from Gilbert. "Misjudging? _Mis_judging?" he repeated, offending doubt mingling with his words. He pulled away from his desk. "Kid, assimilation officers _don't_ misjudge."

"Yes, they do."

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do."

"Look, kid, I can't just _reassign_ you to a different officer all willy-nilly _simply_ because you _think_ that Francis _'misjudges'_ your ability. Assimilation officers. Are. _Never. _Wrong. They're there to change your _life_."

Arthur crinkled his nose and pulled away. Gilbert's breath started to smell a bit sour. Suddenly, Gilbert slammed his hand around a pen lying on his desk and he ripped a little sheet of paper from underneath his name stand at the edge of his desk. He scribbled something out on one side, and then he scrawled a group of short words across the other side. Then he shoved the note into Arthur.

"I want you to go to that address and talk to the old man there. It's far; bring Francis with you," Gilbert ordered. Then he whipped the metal pen across the room. The utensil cracked against the wall and broke. Arthur flinched and he dared to look back. The ink cartridge was separated from its container and spilled a puddle of blue. Gilbert slapped Arthur back into attention. "Until you realise that you just _can't_ change my decision, I do not want to see your ungrateful face around here ever again."

Arthur stared back. Fear had finally settled back where anger was. He took the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

"Do you _understand_?"

Arthur instinctively clicked his heels together. He didn't even know why he did that, but he did. "Yes, _sir!_"

Gilbert nodded in satisfaction. His hands were clasped behind his back and he stood straight, just like Ludwig Beilschmidt. "Now, leave."

No more words were necessary and Arthur briskly exited the room. He bumped into somebody waiting out the door with a tablet under her arm, apologised and walked around. After walking a good distance away from Beilschmidt's nightmarish office, Arthur stopped and took out the little note and looked at it. "Sanssouci 24 Mneme," it said. Arthur realised that it was an address, although it was a strange way to write one, but he had never heard of a town or city called "Sanssouci," and he was certain that wherever this "Sanssouci" was, it wasn't close to BCWD. With a heavy sigh, he flipped to the back. That side was almost dark blue with the large line-cloud that Gilbert "drew." Arthur couldn't quite see what was originally there, but he knew that it was from Francis: A cursive "Bonnefoy" was still visible at the bottom. Arthur scowled and shoved the note back into his pants' pocket.

That Beilschmidt placed too much trust in his officers.


	9. Theory 3

**Hiya, Hikou no Kokoro back again! I just ploughed right through my Writer's Block, and I hope that nothing has suffered because of it. So anyway, I bring you another Theory chapter, where everything is excruciatingly subtle. Things have mellowed out for a bit, until we reach the first Reason chapter. I can't wait to bring that about.**

**Well, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia._ It rightfully belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I just own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"Things do not change; we change."  
—Henry David Thoreau

"Theory 3: Without Worries"

I liked Francis. I really did. Nobody understood why, and nobody could explain Francis either. He was a paper sort of guy; he wasn't fond of those electronic tablets that everybody else used. Yes, he caused some troubles. He didn't get the messages as quickly as everybody else. Paper and ink were stuck through the Land Control Facility more than they normally did anywhere else in the World Domain. But he would disregard the inconveniences. "It's better for the eyes," he would say. "Everything seems more tangible on paper," he would say. And then he would leave it at that. But the truth was that he was afraid. Nobody knew why, but everybody disregarded it. Maybe that was why I liked Francis so much. He turned out better than that irritable "gentleman" Arthur Kirkland. Francis liked to stick paper in recycling facilities and took whatever was given to him without altering a word on the page. Maybe Arthur should have learnt a thing or two from him.

Francis had been sitting at his desk, again doing paperwork on papers rather than a screen. All the reports he had been receiving weren't the best. The borders were constantly on high alert as enemy attacks were frequent, and a few sectors of the western branches were closed off due to damage and bluffs. But of course, he was confident in the safety of the majority. Gilbert Beilschmidt was no fool, and he easily took care of security without blinking. I have seen the stresses the war had put on, and I have seen how Gilbert worked—I was quite jealous.

But that was not part of Francis' problems. His real problems lied with Arthur. His head hurt, and bandages were wrapped around his forehead and underneath his blond hair. Sure, his doctor told him that it wasn't as bad as a concussion and there was only a bit of blood and that he shouldn't worry too much. But he couldn't help himself from thinking that it wasn't the case, and in his confusion he had said something foolish, causing Arthur to blow up verbally. And that would explain why two papers from Kiku and Sadık reported that Arthur had asked to switch to their instructions. The idea was frustrating to Francis.

It had been around this time that Arthur knocked the door. Of course, he waited for Francis to say _come in_, as dictated by common courtesy. But when Francis did, Arthur stormed in. Well, I thought he stomped right in; his boots clanged against the floor. Arthur had told me otherwise, and Francis seemed to be unfazed looking up from his papers.

"_Welcome back,"_ Francis had greeted as he set down his pen. He smiled up to Arthur when he approached with a folded piece of paper in his hands. _"Do you need anything?"_

"_Yes." _Arthur was waving the little note in front of Francis. _"I've received orders from Mr. Gilbert Beilschmidt to go to this address. He told me to bring you along." _Arthur was scowling. And he was leaning on one side. I didn't like the tone he used.

Silence fell over them when Francis plucked the paper out of Arthur's fingers. Realisation hit as soon as Francis looked at the tiny words, and he folded up the note. He knew what Gilbert had been trying to do. The real address, converted from Gilbert's eccentric "code," was SS-24 Plot 3, a place that was a good hour drive from BCWD campus. Gilbert would go there once every year; it held a special spot in his heart and he would never let it go. It was depressing to see those words on that note. But Francis simply sighed and agreed. He told Arthur that he would bring them to the area the day after the next, since he needed to ask for a day off in order to pull a stunt as this.

Then Francis requested for Arthur's address. Arthur blew up upon the request, shouting a variety of false accusations. But Francis returned each one with a smile. He clasped his hands together as he looked up, waiting for Arthur to finish his argument, which mainly spoke of how Arthur could wait for Francis on BCWD campus. When Arthur was done, Francis said that it would be more convenient and mentioned that he could always look through the staff and intern files for the address; after all, he did have the access. But he much preferred Arthur to say it, since he didn't want to drop in unannounced. Secretly, though, Francis just wanted to visit Arthur's home and hoped to meet whoever Arthur's partner was. Nevertheless, Arthur grabbed back the folded note and scribbled down his address. Then he stomped off again without a single farewell.

The day afterward was another normal day. Arthur once again found himself under Francis' wing, and once again Francis simply dragged Arthur through a tour around campus and down the list of staff members. Nothing productive happened—anything Arthur deemed to be productive. He just met more people, and was forced to remember a million names of people whom he probably would never talk to in the long run. But the two did visit Alfred and Matthew. They continued to chat away, and Francis made another one of those red concoctions for Matthew, who remained silent and almost faded away several times during the visit. Alfred had talked about Antonio and Lovino, and how it was disappointing that they could not go to the cafeteria with them anymore. And then he complained about how last night the sounds of marching feet would pass by his door and he could hear shouts from some Russian patient and the barked orders of Sadık. Apparently neither Alfred nor Matthew had a good night's sleep then.

Afterwards, Arthur's work day had ended and he returned home to his brother, who was waiting impatiently with a bottle of bad whisky in his hand. Alistair snapped a few harsh words and then hobbled off to bed. Arthur forgot to tell Alistair that he was going off to SS the next day and then things turned sour.

But, throughout the whole time, Francis did not once mention Arthur's failed mission to find a new instructor. Yes, Francis had been extraordinarily offended, and he was tempted to bring the subject up a few times. But he didn't say anything and acted as if the verbal fight with Arthur had not occurred at all. That was why I had liked Francis. He didn't waste his time changing things that he didn't need to fix.


	10. Law 4

**Yo, Hokou no Kokoro back again! This guy took a little long to get done, but I got it! So far, this is the shortest Law chapter. Originally, this was going to be a Theory chapter-a continuation of the last one-but in the end, I thought against it. Well, anyway, so this is another Law chapter, and the next chapter will be your first Reason chapter.**

**Reviewer thanks: _(I failed to do this all the other chapters, but I'm doing it now!)_**

_**Law 1, Part 1:**_** cheshiresapprentice, Crazy Green Earphones, firelight3; _Law 1, Part 2: _Crazy Green Earphones; _Theory 2:_ Crazy Green Earphones, firelight3; _Law 2, Part 1:_ BrOwNiEfOx, Crazy Green Earphones; _Law 2, Part 2:_ BrOwNiEfOx, firelight3, Crazy Green Earphones; _Law 2, Part 3:_ firelight3, Crazy Green Earphones, Guest, FlyingLikeAButterfly; _Law 3:_ Crazy Green Earphones, Erania; _Theory 3: _Crazy Green Earphones, firelight3, BrOwNiEfOx, and Julia.**

**Thank you so much for your reviews! They're all very much appreciated, and they're what keeps me going.**

**In addition to that new practice, I'm adding another one as well. At varying milestone review counts, I will send the reviewer a PM and they can request a one-shot fic from me. And the higher the milestone, the longer the one-shot. For example, if you hit the first milestone, you get a one-shot that's 1,000 words long. And then if you hit the second, you get a one-shot that's 1,500 words long. Etc. This is all in celebration to those who take the time to review. Thank you very much!**

**Well, now that's a long note. So let's get on with this show. Thank you and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia._ It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"Some people are so fond of ill-luck that they run half-way to meet it."  
—Douglas Jerrold

"Law 4: Without Worries"

Arthur snatched the home keys from off his counter. The little things jingled on the ring and he stuck them into his pocket. He also took his wallet as well and counted the amount within the pouch. Behind him, Alistair stood, leaning against his crutches tucked under his arms and scowling. The redheaded man was glaring at Arthur's back, and when Arthur walked around the counter to find some more money stashed in one of the drawers, the man hobbled after.

"Would you _stop_ following me?" Arthur asked, slamming the drawer closed.

"No," Alistair snapped back. His tone was sharp, soaked with a distinct accent that Arthur could never imagine speaking in. Arthur never wanted to hear that voice at all. "You didn't tell me that you're going anywhere. Why didn't you tell me that you were going?"

"Look, I forgot." Arthur moved onto another drawer and slammed that shut as well. Apparently, there was no more money left hidden. Alistair must have run off with it to buy cheap liquor.

"You forgot. You say you forgot," Alistair mocked. He walked around Arthur, his face scrunched up with clear disgust. The pads of his crutches made strange clicking noises against the tiles. "You told me that you have a day off today, but forgot to tell me that you're doing something on that day?"

"Jesus _bloody _Christ! Yes, I forgot!" Arthur was yelling, shooting a glare to another pair of green eyes. "Why do you care anyway?"

"I don't."

"Then don't ask!" A hand waved dismissively at Alistair. "Now go roll over in a corner and drown yourself in whisky. I'll be back in the evening."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur was walking towards the door, and Alistair followed quickly after. "I swear that—"

There was a knock. Arthur shot his brother a glare, and Alistair fell silent; however, their scowls grew, each holding its own silent spite. With an exasperated flick of his hand, Alistair turned and limped away, disappearing around the corner into another room. Then Francis' voice permeated through the door, all jovial as if the setting was in a cheesy musical. "Mon chéri! I've arrived bearing gifts for your residence!" the "nuisance" called louder than the clicks of Alistair's crummy crutches.

Arthur's mood immediately plummeted. He felt like he was surrounded by the voices of his greatest tormentors. Nevertheless, groaning and rolling his eyes, he opened the door. And then his mouth fell right open.

Francis was indeed bearing gifts. Normally Arthur wouldn't mind people giving him a few little trinkets—he was gracious enough to take what was given—but Francis didn't need to look like some sort of bachelor at the same time. What appeared to be Francis' definition of _gifts_ were a bouquet of stunningly white lilies, all wrapped up in a translucent purple plastic wrap patterned with very feminine swirls of faded green, and a bottle of imported red wine that had to be at the very least older than the war. And Francis himself—the man was outrageous in Arthur's mind. Francis appeared awfully strange out of his BCWD uniform, but apparently he wore designer clothes when trying to be "casual." That day, Francis wore a bluish-purple dress shirt and tannish coat, both shining with a glossy veneer over the tightly loomed threads, and similarly coloured pants, coupled with dress shoes that border-lined hiking boots and a loose scarf stripped with white and green. He dressed much too well for a simple visit. He even shaved, revealing a delicate jawline that looked much too girly for a man.

"Bonjour! I see you're doing well!" Francis greeted with a wink. "Where is your partner whom I have heard about?"

"M-my what?" Arthur sputtered, mouth still agape.

"Your partner," Francis repeated. "You know, your wife?"

"I don't have a wife."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Your husband?" Francis tried again. Then he looked at his bouquet, holding it close to his nose. "Hmm… Maybe I should have simply brought two bottles…"

Suddenly, the implications hit Arthur. And he exploded. "I live with my bloody _brother,_ for Christ's sake!"

One of Francis' thin eyebrows curved higher on his forehead. "So you're one of _those_ people?" He cleared his throat, adjusting his collar with his wine holding hand. "Well, I'm completely fine with your preferences. I would have just liked it if you told me before—"

"What I mean is that I'm _not_ married!"

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure?"

"_Yes!_"

"You're not lying, are you?"

"_No_, I'm not bloody _lying_! If I were, I'd be _out_ that _window_ before you could ever ask me _again_!"

Francis huffed. "That's a disappointment."

"_You're_ a disappointment!"

"Quit _shouting_!" Alistair's voice cut through the air. Both Francis and Arthur closed their mouths, stopping any more retorts and turning to face the snapping words. "I swear, you brat, you told me to go away because you thought _I _was going to be rude, but like _you're_ any better!" The sudden silence allowed the sounds of Alistair's walking to clink through the air, and the redhead peered around the corner at Arthur. Rage was written all over his face. "Do I have to lecture you on how to treat your—" Then his jaw hung open.

The look of pure shock etched over Alistair's face surprised both Francis and Arthur. The man's green eyes were wide, staring directly at Francis as if a painful recognition ploughed right through Alistair's mind. But Francis himself didn't know what to do and stared right back. Alistair's face was nowhere in Francis' mental database of faces, and Francis didn't remember anybody missing a right leg, yet something about how Francis looked somehow scared Alistair. Off to the side, Arthur stood still. An even more intense look of confusion than Francis' had slid over Arthur's countenance, and he raised an eyebrow. He was about to say something, but he stopped.

"Joan…?" Alistair choked out.

Francis' blond eyebrows scrunched together, furrowing his brow. "I'm sorry, who?"

That snapped Alistair out of his fearing trance. Suddenly, Alistair's expression of rage returned, although a bit milder, and he shook his head. His jaw formed another scowl and he hobbled around into a turn. "Never mind," the word came out as a growl. "You just looked like a lady; that's all. Have fun on your date, brat."

Arthur fumed again, tossing his hands into the air in exasperation. "I'm _not_ going on a date with another _man_! This is strictly _business_ matters!"

"Whatever." Alistair waved behind his back dismissively.

Arthur growled something under his breath. Even after years of living with his own eldest brother, he never seemed to quite understand anything Alistair did. With a sharp sigh, he walked towards the door and said, "All right, let's go. I want to get this over with."

But, for some odd reason, Francis didn't seem to notice. Hand on the doorknob, Arthur waved Francis over. "Let's go. Leave my brother alone."

"Does he stay home alone all day?" Francis asked.

"Yes. So let's go."

"Every day?"

"Yes."

Francis paused for a moment and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he placed the white lilies gently on the counter and put the bottle of wine nearby. "One moment, please."

Then he walked around the corner; Arthur followed closely after, scowl stretching further. He could hear Francis talk to Alistair. "Hey, come with us," Francis said, a personable smile clashing with Alistair's frown. "We're going to SS. It'll be a nice change of pace from here."

At first, Alistair refused. Thick eyebrows were raised and he turned his head away.

"But it'll be nice!" Francis urged.

"No," Alistair said again.

"In the evening, we're going to get something to eat. Dinner's on me."

That caught Alistair's attention: nice and quick. Arthur himself had never been able to persuade the redhead into doing anything, but then again, Francis had the advantage of having his own finances rather than having a joint one similar to Alistair's and Arthur's. Francis was able to bribe; Arthur could not. And when Arthur realised that he was going to be spending the rest of the day with another nuisance, his scowl deepened.

Nevertheless, Francis continued to insist, draping his arms over both Arthur's and Alistair's shoulders and saying that it was going to be a great bonding time between men, and then led them out the door. Arthur quickly locked the door behind them, and the group of three proceeded through the apartment and into the parking lot behind the building. Only a few cars were there, since the majority of residents could easily walk around to their destinations. Each one of them was a slick, almost flat, vehicle with wheels that were protected by a plastic covering that was melded into the metal contraption. Windows were either white or black, and they spanned from the windshield, over the top, and to the back. Only one of them appeared to be a hovering model, with its pseudo-wheels barely a centimetre from the ground, while the rest were plugged in a wire from the ground to maintain the energy storage. Francis led Arthur and Alistair to one of the plugged in cars. It was an immaculate white with a black, opaque window that covered the whole top of the cockpit and the passenger seats. A black design shone from the hood, giving off a stylish impression.

When he approached the vehicle, Francis took out his BCWD card and walked around to the driver's side. Then he passed the card over the hood and the car sprang to life, lighting up with blue, rectangular lines and sliding four oval doors up to reveal the inside. There were four black leather seats; although the car seemed to be so flat that it appeared to force passengers to lie down, the seats were upright. Then he tapped the door directly behind the driver's seat, and the door slid down and closed, creating a soft whirring sound.

"All right, get in and make yourself comfortable," Francis said with a grin. He walked around the car and unplugged it, letting the thick wire to drop onto the ground. "This is going to be a long ride."

Arthur groaned and rolled his eyes. Alistair immediately took his chance to slip into the shotgun. Shooting a glare at his brother through the lowering door, Arthur knew he was not going to enjoy the time in the car and slipped into the seat behind Alistair. Francis soon followed and got behind the wheel. He moved Alistair's crutches into the back beside Arthur and started the car out of the parking lot.

The ride was indeed long, lasting almost three hours before Francis had said that they entered SS. And through almost the whole time, the vehicle was silent except for the whirring and clicking of the engine and the soft music playing from the radio. A few times, Francis had tried starting a conversation. "I didn't know you had a brother, Arthur," he had said. "What's it like to have a brother? Do you two get along?" he had asked. "The weather is really nice," he had mentioned. "SS is a really nice town. It's not as densely populated as the rest of the World Domain," he had explained. But no matter what Francis said, neither brother would say a complete sentence. Alistair seemed to only grunt, and Arthur stuck with a yes or no answer. Only once was anything answered at all.

"I've been meaning to ask you, what happened to your leg, Alistair?" Francis asked.

Alistair huffed and leaned on an arm. A hand was covering his mouth as he glared outside.

"He lost it in the war," Arthur replied for his brother. "He was in some division in Canada."

"Probe Division, Serial 435, CA area 64," Alistair suddenly said.

Francis peered to the left. "Probe Division? Don't those divisions see the least fighting? Furthest from the battle or something?"

Alistair grunted something else, but said nothing.

"You two don't like to talk much, do you?" Francis asked only to receive more incoherent and unintelligible grunts and grumbles. He looked up at the rear-view mirror to see Arthur, but the other blond also did not say anything. The way Arthur looked out the window easily resembled Alistair's, and Francis saw that, despite their differences and conflicts, they were indeed brothers.

After, Francis resigned to the oppressive silence the anti-conversationalists created. Slowly, he simply settled into the sounds of the violin and the piano and the rhythms of the driving. Although the World Domain was relatively densely populated, there rarely were many drivers going down the thin strips of treated dirt clearings called "roads." Maybe it was because there were so many people in such a small space that everything was supposedly close by, so few found the need to leave their little homes. The rest was either city or artificial forest fostered to provide a needed balance with the technology of humans. Eventually, the tall buildings surrounding the roads on each side turned into trees. A few skyscrapers were able to peek through the leaves of the branches, but they went unnoticed, and Francis relished in the ambience for only a brief moment. And then he stepped harder on the accelerator and streaked by only four other motor vehicles before entering the area called SS-24, where the wooden trees were replaced by stubby little buildings of brick and cement, and careening through the gaps the architectural guards made.

It took Francis almost 15 minutes to park. He had driven to the furthest outskirts of the "city," or in a more accurate term, "town." In every way, the area had an antique appearance with its short buildings and crude, stone walls and streets; the few cars seemed to be out of place like a river pebble in a desert mound. Francis slid into a small space at the corner of an unnamed building. Then he clicked a few buttons and stopped the whole vehicle. The wheels slowly lowered, and a quiet "whooshing" sound could be heard.

With a grin, Francis turned around to the Kirkland siblings. "All right. We're here. So get out; we're walking the rest of the way."

Arthur stretched his arms over his head and sighed. "About time," he grumbled, pulling his shirt back over his stomach.

"It would have gone faster if you had the basic social skills to actually carry a conversation."

"Oh, shut your mouth, git."

Francis laughed, opened his door and slipped out. Arthur quickly followed afterwards and walked to Francis' side, hands crossed over his chest while he expectantly waited for Francis to direct the little "party" to their destination. However, Francis seemed to stop and ducked his head into the car again. "Hey, aren't you coming along with us?" he asked.

Alistair didn't pry his eyes from the tinted windows. "No," he said.

"Aw, why not? I'll get your crutches for you." Francis reached behind his seat to retrieve the walking aids.

The redhead shot Francis a glare and the blond stopped dead in his tracks. Sighing, Alistair pulled his elbow from the sill of the window and waved his brother and Francis off. "I just don't want to go. I'll wait in the car."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"All right then." Francis pulled out of the car. Then he pointed at Alistair's feet. "If you get bored, I have a few books stored there. I hope you don't mind science textbooks."

Alistair shrugged and then slammed down on a button the dashboard. With a quick click, the doors slid back down and locked themselves, leaving Francis mildly confused with Arthur rolling his eyes at the side.

"Huh, that was an awfully curt farewell," Francis mused, hands on his hips.

"That's an understatement," Arthur pointed out. "He's always like that. Doesn't even know the left and right of the codes of courtesy."

"Is that so?" A blond eyebrow was arched and Francis turned and stared at Arthur. Then he sighed and let his hands drop to his side. "All right then, let's go."

Giving a small wave for Arthur to follow, Francis walked down the sidewalk and turned the corner. Arthur looked up at the building to the right; its eccentric spires reached upward towards the sky, decorated with archaic designs that border-lined Gothic of the seventeenth century, and its cement walls were worn and weathered by erosion and discolouration that didn't complement with the shining stained glass windows. It was a strange piece of architecture to reside in, but Arthur figured that everybody had his or her individual tastes. However, Francis didn't seem to give it a second glance, and the two walked right past the door. Arthur shot Francis a questioning look but said nothing. Beside the furthest wall, a fencing of black metal reached out and surrounded a plot of green grass. And scattered across the field were slabs of crude rock jutting out of the ground. When Francis turned into the gates, the look of shock appeared suddenly across Arthur's face.

"Woah, wait, why are we going here?" Arthur asked, panicking as he watched the tombstones pass by.

"We're visiting Gilbert's mentor," Francis replied. He seemed to be unfazed by the staring epitaphs and continued down the brick path.

"Who is dead?" Arthur trotted faster until he walked closely beside Francis.

"Sometimes the dead speak the loudest."

Arthur frowned as they turned and walked through rows and rows of graves. Suddenly, they stopped at one particular grave. It was the only one that the slab of rock lying on the ground rather standing up. And no flowers decorated the sides. Instead, a plate with a baked potato was set on the corner. The potato seemed to be half-eaten as if the ghost woke up and took a few bites out of the piece of food; however, Arthur noticed the little ants marching across the ceramic, and knew that it was actually nature that chomped down on the potato, not the paranormal. An immaculate blue hat with a large silver star was set on the middle of the tombstone, perfectly folded and ready to be worn. It must have been the same one Arthur had seen Gilbert holding when he first met the snappish soldier; either that or it was the same hat Arthur had seen in the old photograph in Gilbert's office. And a rifle was left there as well. The golden letters over the wood read, "The Black Eagle." There was no epitaph, and only a cursive name was carved into the plain stone. It was the grave of Frederick Hohenzollern.

For a brief moment, Arthur's green eyes widened with shock. He recognised that name all too well; Frederick Hohenzollern was the man who "declared war on the world," and was practically worshipped by that Gilbert. Arthur glanced over to Francis.

But Francis didn't seem to notice Arthur's realisation. "I told him that he shouldn't leave the gun here," Francis said, picking up the rifle. The firearm made a few small clinks, and he frowned, raising an eyebrow and running his finger down to the barrel until something clicked. "And it's completely loaded with the safety off too. What is he thinking? Like a dead man can fend off attackers or something? It's useless here; I'll return this to Gil."

"Wait!" Arthur exclaimed. "You shouldn't be taking gifts from the dead! Put that back!"

Francis looked over at Arthur and slung the firearm strap over his shoulder. Francis looked strange with a gun in his hands; his outfit was too flashy to appear like a military uniform and the dark weapon stood out against the bright colours. The gun didn't look like it belonged in Francis' hands, yet he carried it like it was naturally there. "Don't worry about that. Old Fritz here wouldn't mind too much. Besides, he already carried off a lot of gifts from years before." Francis smiled.

Unsatisfied with the answer, Arthur's frown deepened and he looked back at the grave. "So why did Beilschmidt ask us to come here?" he asked. "I don't think you can get much out of a dead man."

"That's where you're wrong." Francis shifted on his feet and tugged his green scarf up to his chin and over his mouth. However, the weather was not cold at all. His blue eyes stared intently at the slowly disappearing potato and the little ants.

"How?"

"Let me tell you a story."


	11. Reason 1, Part 1

**Yo, Hikou no Kokoro back already. I hope you are all enjoying the various national holidays of this month. Anyway, I bring you your very first reason chapter! It only 10 chapters to reach here! Hahah... Well, anyway, the format is much different from either theory or law. Now, we're going to see what's going on Gilbert.**

**Anyway, remember the last chapter I said that I'll give gift!fics for reviewers? Well, I regret that now. It's utter arrogance for me to do something like that; my writing is far from perfect, and I highly doubt that everybody wants to see something like this given to them. If I practice this habit, I will only bar myself from real constructive criticism, only expecting praises from people who actually like what I write. Now that's not right, isn't it?**

**Nevertheless, special thanks for the reviewers of the previous chapter: Crazy Green Earphones, ForestFireSong and Fei. Thank you so much for spending your time to review! You have no idea how much I cherish each and every review and reviewer. I write for you guys. :)**

**Well, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I simply own the AU plot.**

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To Create Perfection

"When I was young, I observed that nine out of ten things I did were failures. So I did ten times more work."  
—George Bernard Shaw

"Reason 1: Tower of Babel, Part 1"

Let me tell you a story.

Gilbert never really belonged in this world. Someone such as he would have been better off in the Middle Ages when his habits would have been normal and inconsequential. But he was one of the unfortunate children who were born from the wrong family at the wrong time, in the wrong place, and with the wrong opportunities.

He and his brother Ludwig were born as the third of generations of immigrants. Some say that the first generation are earnest workers; the second geniuses; and the third scum. The Beilschmidts fit perfectly into the stereotype. Their grandfather was the famed Alan Beilschmidt, who had emigrated from Germany to the World Domain and had found the miraculous cure of Alzheimer's. Obviously, anyone who dedicated his time to find a cure of such a devastating and common ailment would have to be excruciatingly earnest. The boy's parents were also, in every way, geniuses. They didn't do anything as awesome as Alan, but their genius gave rise to preliminary equations to advance accurate predictions and general statistics. And finally, the third generation. They truly didn't fit in. Well, Ludwig did; he was an exception: He was a loyal, obedient, little boy who only sought to please his parents. Gilbert was not. For years, from age five to seventeen, he was rebellious, belligerent, and outright lazy. He didn't care to work, paid little attention, and learnt nothing. Unfortunately, he acted with impunity. His parents—bless their souls—were too kind for their own good, too lenient to discipline, too unwilling to yell at this terrible troublemaker. All they did was look upon Gilbert with disappointment. And after years and years of condescension and patronising looks, Gilbert didn't care anymore. He liked his careless lifestyle, and no pained expressions were going to stop him.

Then, suddenly, everything slipped from Gilbert's feet and dragged Ludwig down with him. At age fourteen and Ludwig age nine, his parents died in a car crash. Their deaths were almost instantaneous. There was no shouts, no screams—just blaring lights. Gilbert's father had been driving with his wife directly behind him and Gilbert at shotgun and Ludwig behind him. Gilbert's father was driving at night, playing classical radio at a low volume. The roads were practically empty except for a few cars going by on the lane beside them. Then a car came barrelling down towards them. The speeding driver as absolutely drunk while texting on his phone. But the Beilschmidt family didn't know that. The car swerved into their lane. Gilbert's father made a split second decision and the driver's side crumpled upon impact. Gilbert's father was dead before Ludwig could even shout. The car slid a few metres backwards. His mother died waiting for an ambulance. Ludwig gained a fractured forearm and bleeding head. Gilbert was unscathed except for a bruise on his chest. But Ludwig was the one who called the ambulance.

After that fateful night of March 15, Gilbert and his brother were tossed around. The Beilschmidt relatives were happy to take in the orphans, except Gilbert. Ludwig was fine; he was an angel in every sense of the word. But Gilbert was a loose cannon; he was better at picking fights than following directions. Nobody wanted him, and he couldn't care less. However, Ludwig cared. He refused to leave his one and only big brother; only God knew why.

So as those old men and women debated about the orphans' futures, Gilbert and Ludwig lived alone in their old home. Money was sent to them so they could eat. But instead of shaping up and standing up to responsibility, Gilbert squandered the allowance. Soon the generous donors learnt the truth. Two years later, the umbilical cord was cut.

At age seventeen, Gilbert was cleaning out the house. Once his relatives cut away all the allowance, he had to rely on inheritance, which he also squandered as well. Without any money, Gilbert could no longer sustain his lifestyle, so he had to sell the house and drag Ludwig down with him. He didn't care.

But one day, he did. He had invaded Ludwig's room while the boy was at school. Gilbert himself had long since dropped out, and he tore down everything. While he was cleaning out Ludwig's desk, he had found many papers. Ludwig had always been a studious individual and did the best of work. However, Gilbert didn't spare the perfect scores a glance. But when he reached to the far back, he had found a crumpled piece of paper. Curious, he flattened it out. It was one of those silly surveys asking about the child's dream for the future. "What do you want to do in the future?" it asked. Ludwig's first choice said, "Take care of Big Brother." Then his second and third choices were left empty.

A drop fell upon the page. Gilbert scowled and his fingers curled around the page. In a fit of rage, he ripped the paper apart.

Ludwig had only been ten.

When the brothers moved into a shaggy flat, Gilbert's whole demeanour changed. He had never cared for anyone except himself, but suddenly he cared for nothing except Ludwig. Everything he did became for Ludwig. Gilbert dropped his lazy habits and got a job as a waiter at some café. He tried to get back into school, but he wasn't smart, so he mainly worked all day. Ludwig stayed in school though. Unfortunately, his abilities were never up to par, no matter how hard he worked. And in the World Domain, the ability was worth more than money. Ludwig couldn't fit in.

But it was okay. Ludwig was happy; Gilbert was happy. And the two became inseparable. They couldn't ask for anything else.

Except Gilbert could.

One day, the two were eating dinner bought with an employee discount. Gilbert was twenty, and Ludwig going onto thirteen. Gilbert put down his sandwich back on the box container and weaved his fingers together.

"_Have you ever thought about going to college?"_

Ludwig gave a weird look. Then he scratched his cheek with a finger. _"Sometimes,"_ he replied. He was too truthful for his own good. _"But I don't think I can. I don't have the grades or the abilities for scholarships."_

Gilbert paused. Then he asked, _"But what's your dream college?"_

"_BCWD University,"_ Ludwig said, just like all the other kids in the World Domain. _"But anywhere is really nice already."_

Gilbert ended the conversation there. Ludwig was confused, but he left his brother alone, unaware of anything.

A week later, Gilbert was arrested.

He was a fool. After doing so well with only debt being his sole problem, he slipped up once again. He tried to hack the system and failed miserably. Right when he cut through the security walls, the janitor caught him.

But what made this a nightmare was that Ludwig had been caught as well.

"_Brother, where are you going?"_ he had asked Gilbert, who stood by the door in all black with a portfolio stashed under his arm.

"_The late shift,"_ Gilbert responded.

Ludwig should have left it at that. But at that time, he was too sharp for his own good. He knew Gilbert's workplace was never open past midnight. So impulsively Ludwig slipped out of the house, tailing his brother.

He was shocked to see Gilbert breaking into the BCWD headquarters late at night. Gilbert slunk around, picking locks with bent paperclips and cutting glass with knives. The purpose was much too evident.

Ludwig was a good kid; he really was. But when placed between morality and his brother, he chose his brother. He always would, no matter how much he wavered. So instead of going to help the police or the security guards, he went to help Gilbert.

Within minutes, Ludwig was captured from behind. The janitor caught him. He shouted, and Gilbert went immediately to his aid. Then the police came. The Beilschmidt brothers were arrested with little struggle.

There was no trial. The tools and papers in Gilbert's pockets and hands gave too much away, and Ludwig pleaded guilty. Only moments later, they were sent behind bars. Gilbert was twenty, Ludwig fourteen. Ludwig had spent his birthday in a courtroom.

A year later, when Gilbert was twenty-one and Ludwig was turning fifteen, a man from BCWD headquarters came to the prison. That day had been Gilbert's worst nightmare; it became his Judgement Day. But that day, he and his brother were saved.

The inmates were lined up alphabetically outside with packets of papers in their hands and guards watching them. The papers supposedly contained each person's profile and background, each averaging about ten pages. Gilbert's and Ludwig's were relatively short compared to others, containing only seven and six pages, respectively. Gilbert didn't bother looking through the papers, but apparently, they spoke millions for the strange man of BCWD. The man would scan through each profile and decide the inmate's fate in matters of minutes. "Skeletal muscle," he would sometimes say. "Sensory nerves," he could also say. The categories seemed limitless, and the placements spanned to everywhere. Unfortunately, Gilbert knew what each meant.

Finally, the strange man arrived to Gilbert. Two female secretaries stood beside like sentinels. Gilbert gulped and handed his papers to the man. The man appeared old; wrinkles crossed his face and white hair came down in wisps before joining into a loose ponytail. He appeared to be somebody's grandfather, but he had the air of a dangerous man. He wore a military uniform and his posture was that of a chimney. A rifle labelled with a golden "The Black Eagle" hung from his side, and a pouch of ammunition sat beside it. The man obviously didn't use the firearm solely for decoration. Gilbert knew the man wasn't somebody to mess with, and under the intimidating gaze, Gilbert looked down at his feet.

"_Southern Branch, Sector 660 of Area 7,"_ the man said, _"vegetative conscious."_

Gilbert winced. The man handed the document to one of the secretaries while the other copied down what the man said. Then he moved to Ludwig and took the boy's papers. He didn't take long to make a decision; the words came out only seconds after he flipped to the next page.

"_Central Headquarters. Pain and sensory receptors."_

Gilbert snapped. The look of pure fear in his brother's eyes sent him into frenzy. _"No!"_ he roared. He wasn't thinking when he stepped out of line, raising his clenched fist towards the man.

Everything went in a blur. Gilbert didn't feel his fist connect with anything. Instead, he heard a click. His feet went out from under him. Female voices shouted, _"Sir!"_ And Gilbert was pinned on the ground. His arms were wrenched back and a heavy knee slammed against his back. _"Brother!"_ he heard Ludwig cry. The next thing Gilbert knew was eating the pebbles and dirt.

"_May I help you?"_ the man asked. His voice was calm: no surprise, no condescension, no anger. He spoke as if Gilbert didn't try to assault him.

"_Let go of me!"_ Gilbert screamed, kicking his legs. _"You bastard! Don't you dare think you can do this to us!"_ He stared upwards at Ludwig, his heart clenching in his chest. The look of sheer terror was too visible on the poor boy's face; tears streamed down in long streaks and the bottom lip trembled.

Gilbert hated everybody who did this to him. His parents. The police. That stupid janitor. And, most of all, these silly officers who would dare to think that they could dictate his life. Their gazes looked down upon him—he was the snake eating the dust. An aura of condescension oppressed him, and he couldn't get away. He wanted nothing more than to punch each and every arrogant face in, including the face of the old man on top of him. And Gilbert fought to achieve such a satisfaction, wriggling and trying ever so desperately to throw the man off his back.

But the man wrenched Gilbert's arms back. Gilbert let out a scream. Pain coursed from his arm and concentrated at his shoulder. Above, Ludwig was crying, _"Brother! Brother!"_ And Gilbert was forced to look back at the ground.

"_What do you want?"_ Gilbert snapped.

"_I had asked you what you want,"_ the old man repeated, _"so speak, child."_

Gilbert shifted and tried to glare over his forehead. However, he couldn't see the man's face; he could only see the heavy boots tipped with an iron toe. He couldn't believe that he had to resort to begging.

"_Ludwig. My brother. Put him somewhere else."_

"_He is the fifteen year-old child, correct?"_

But the man didn't wait for a response. He moved, one hand letting go of Gilbert's. The grip was loosened, so Gilbert once again began to squirm, kicking up more dirt and pebbles. But as soon as he did so, the pressure was back and Gilbert couldn't move.

"_Lenalee, give me the boy's documents."_ The man held a hand out to one of the secretaries.

"_Yes, sir!"_ the woman picked up the first document of the pile and handed it to him.

The man flipped through the pages and handed it back. _"This child's, I meant."_ He patted Gilbert's back.

The woman gave him a questioning look, but she didn't object and simply took out the next profile and handed it over. Once again, the man flipped through the pages, reading the words much slower than before. Nevertheless, the decision was again quick and simple. Only a matter of seconds had passed—Gilbert knew that—but he felt that the moment only stretched on in suspense and droned with the sounds of wind, paper, feet, and sniffles. Gilbert looked back up at Ludwig, but his eyes shot back down before making eye contact. No message was sent between the brothers, even though they had tried.

The BCWD official finally closed the packet and gave it back to the secretary. _"I have changed my decision."_ He stood up and released Gilbert.

The outraged teen shot up to his feet and raised another fist against the old man. Once again, the hand didn't connect; the old man grabbed the fist and pushed it down to Gilbert's side, unblinking as he used his other hand to pat down his own clothes. In fact, the man didn't seem to notice the sudden exchange, the weary glances, or the gasping of his secretaries. He just continued, _"Gilbert Beilschmidt: Central BCWD Headquarters. My jurisdiction."_

The words sent a shock through the guards and the lines of the inmates. Lenalee opened her mouth to question, but the man shot her a glare.

"_I am sure with my decision."_ He held his hands behind his back, standing straight and gazing forward with shockingly blue eyes. _"I will be bringing Ludwig along as well. I will personally decide what I will do with them."_

The secretary saluted. Then a guard was pulled out of the line and led the two brothers away from the line of inmates. No words were spoken; only piercing glares were exchanged as Gilbert and Ludwig were taken away. The only one who didn't glare back was the old man. A strange smile was stretched on his face as he watched the Beilschmidts leave. The wrinkles around his eyes made him look like a grandfather. And then he saluted.

This old man was Frederick Hohenzollern.


	12. Reason 1, Part 2

**Yo! Hikou no Kokoro back for another Reason chapter. This one's a little longer than the last one. I have a feeling that you might not completely relate to what's going on here, but it's all right. If you have questions, stick it in the reviews and I'll make sure to respond; I respond to every review I get. So well, that's about all I have to say. The next chapter is still in the works, so I hope to see you soon afterwards!**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia._ It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I only own the AU plot.**

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To Create Perfection

"War does not determine who is right—only who is left."  
—Bertrand Russel

"Reason 1: Tower of Babel, Part 2"

Gilbert had hated Frederick Hohenzollern with all of his being. His eyes were cold; his wrinkles only showed age but no kindness; his posture was stiff—almost inhuman. And in every way, Frederick was the epitome of every cause of Beilschmidt suffering, from accidents to punishment. Gilbert had firmly believed that Frederick was sadistic enough to put Gilbert and Ludwig every psychological torture imaginable: from the crash of six years ago to the agony of attending the funeral Gilbert hoped to never see.

The first thing Frederick did when they returned was split the brothers apart. Ludwig was sent to the science department, going under the instruction of Roderick Edelstein, who had been the SEP assimilation officer until Francis Bonnefoy replaced him four years later. On the other hand, Gilbert was sent to the military department in Frederick's jurisdiction. Gilbert didn't react kindly the assignments. He kicked and screamed curses through the air as Ludwig was led down the hallways while Frederick dragged him in the other direction. He was terrified that Ludwig would be pushed into the experimentations themselves, and that he would never see his younger brother again. The ideas and possibilities sent bitter tastes through his mouth and jaded him.

Since then, Frederick pushed Gilbert through various training. The boy was sent off to run around the campus, to hop over obstacle courses, to "parkour" from point A to point B, and to use the various types of guns developed since the eighteenth century. However, things didn't stop there. Gilbert was forced to sit around and read military books ranging from Julius Caesar to Napoleon Bonaparte, taught to play chess against Frederick himself, lectured until his ears bled over every theory and law, and quizzed on every little detail he had failed to learn. Failure was common; complaints became second-nature.

To make matters worse, Frederick seemed to think that it was a brilliant idea for Gilbert to compete. The only times when the two brothers were reunited—except for during the night time when they were fast asleep, of course—were when Gilbert and Ludwig were competing against each other on the matters of math and science. Of course, Ludwig had the clear advantage, and he would always win. Gilbert struggled along, only once or twice coming close to victory, and he would always turn around to Frederick for any assistance at all whereas his little brother worked alone. Each defeat was humiliating. Ludwig would always try to play easy, purposefully answering a good handful of questions wrong, but Frederick would demand that he should not do that. And then there was chess. The two males would spend hours on end on opposing sides of the tables playing chess. Gilbert was a slow learner, and for almost a month Gilbert needed Frederick to explain the rules. And then they would play, Frederick always glowering down upon his intern with his cold, cold gaze. Gilbert never seemed to win one chess match, and blunder after blunder littered their games. For many games, Gilbert couldn't even seem to take Frederick's queen and bishops, much less the king. Nobody could understand what exactly the old man was planning.

Then the failures began to fade. People would say that Gilbert had practiced enough. Others would say it was a miracle. But whatever the reason was, Gilbert was finally able to accomplish something.

First came with the guns. Of course it would be from the guns. Months had passed, and Gilbert knew the basics of each firearm given to him. Then one day, Frederick patted Gilbert's shoulder and told him to shoot three shots at the little dot in the centre of a white board. He said that he wanted to see Gilbert to hit the same exact spot in succession. With a slight huff and an eye for failure, Gilbert turned and fired three times. There were two distinct clinks. The three bullets were in a neat line embedded into the board.

The second success was with Ludwig. The victory was from a little "bee" on the subject of basic physics. Somehow, Ludwig had spaced out, and Gilbert remembered his mistakes of weeks before. Frederick had even sat on the side-lines, not saying one hint to Gilbert. Yes, Gilbert had barely gotten a point above his brother, but it was still a win.

And the third one was at chess. The match stretched for over an hour, and Gilbert, true to habit, gnawed down Frederick's number of pawns. Frederick played the same way that would often lead to his own success, but suddenly, Gilbert had gotten to the queen before Frederick could even realise what was going on. From there, the match turned against Frederick, and Gilbert decimated the rest of the pieces before taking victory.

Yes, the rush of accomplishment washed over Gilbert in a brief moment of ecstasy. However, the success on its own didn't make Gilbert addicted to it. Instead the look of sheer pride that came with it was what got Gilbert intoxicated. Frederick would always have a brief moment of shock for the first moment, and suddenly his face would soften. The wrinkles around his eyes and cheeks would curl inwards. A croaked smile would travel across his face. And his blue eyes would warm up like the ocean underneath the sunrise. Frederick didn't need to say a word of praise—Gilbert wouldn't listen to anything anyway—and Gilbert could feel his heart swell. It was what he had yearned for throughout his life, and suddenly, Gilbert thought that he could finally do something—make a name for himself. And that was more than Gilbert could ever ask for.

Frederick Hohenzollern didn't seem like such a bad man anymore. Gilbert noticed that Frederick would smile more, and his tone would seem gentler, even while he was giving an order. But Gilbert was still bitter. After all, Frederick was still the man who had almost sent the Beilschmidt brothers to their deaths, and was the one who separated Gilbert and Ludwig to different departments. Frederick remained as the enemy, but was no longer the Devil.

However, that too didn't last long.

"_Hey, Gilbert,"_ Frederick said, watching Gilbert stick out his tongue as he pondered what he should do next in this game of Risk.

"_What?"_ Gilbert snapped back. He was losing miserably, stranded in the middle of Europe by enemy troops, but that didn't stop him from trying. So he fortified and refrained from attacking.

"_We're going to Canada next week. Pack your bags."_

That got Gilbert's attention; he shot up, prying his eyes from the game board. _"What? Really? What for?"_ He didn't notice his mentor sweeping the little figurines off the board. There was no way poor Gilbert would win with only five pieces in Germany while Frederick himself had the whole world in his palm.

"_For enjoyment."_ Frederick placed the pieces in their rightful bags and then folded the board up. _"Besides, it's hunting season now."_ He looked at his intern, a smirk growing over his chapped lips. _"I want to see you actually bring a trophy home."_

Gilbert grinned back. _"You won't be disappointed."_

"_I know I won't."_

Gilbert loved those words. Warmth flowed into the pit of his stomach, and he felt an exhilaration he would forever cherish. Maybe that was when he began to truly like Frederick, but the line from hate to adoration was foggy.

Nevertheless, that was when Gilbert began to call Frederick "Fritz." It was one of those cute endearments to show his adoration, and it stuck. Even little Ludwig would smile and say, _"Good morning, Alte Fritz."_ Some brave souls would also call the leader the nickname, but Gilbert would often chase them off it. After all, Gilbert wanted to be the only one. _"Hey, Fritz!"_ he would call. _"Oy, Fritzy,"_ he would sometimes greet Frederick, running up to the old man and leaping into a giant hug, or as Frederick would say, a "killer tackle." _"You watching, Old Fritz?"_ Gilbert would often ask when the man didn't seem to be listening because he was busy with his own work or was beginning to doze off. Despite its common usage, Frederick didn't respond when Gilbert first called him "Fritz" on the plane to Canada. _"Hey, Fritz, Fritz, Fritz, Fritz,"_ Gilbert had chanted, bouncing in his seat. Frederick gave the boy a cursory glance and disregarded the strange antic until Gilbert stole the hat on Frederick's head and shouted, _"Earth to Old Fritz!"_ And from then on, Frederick would always respond to the eccentric pet name in fear that Gilbert would again be obnoxious while trying to get his attention. After all, that plane ride to Canada was unbearably annoying.

Canada was nothing like Gilbert had seen. Patches and patches of large, deep green forests scattered over the location, each tree growing naturally in the dirt that would crumble within the fingers. There weren't many cities around, but Fritz did warn Gilbert that it was because they were in the least populated area of the country, and the houses were small, rustic, and made of brick and wood rather than metal and concrete. And there was no scent of the ocean either; instead, the air smelled more like snow and evergreens. The living beings that wandered over the land weren't simply birds that flew over the sea or dead marine creatures sold on the seafood market either. More than once Gilbert saw bunnies, badgers, beavers and deer scampering away, and one time was fortunate enough to watch a small brown bear clamber up a tree. Everything in Canada seemed awfully primitive and simple, in a strange, complex way as people did extra work to achieve what Gilbert could simply press a few buttons to do. However, the atmosphere seemed nicer. The clouds were lazy; the people sat quietly beside each other, enjoying the company without needing a conversation to lead them; time seemed to be a path to enjoy rather than an antagonist to race against. Gilbert quite liked the place, enjoying the completely different pace from his stressful days in a perfectionist society, and Fritz relaxed more as he pushed aside his paperwork and simply wrote what he wanted. Canada's ambience had helped both of them.

But the two males didn't go there to get away from the stresses and work of the World Domain expectations. The retreat was part of the package. Instead, they intended to go there to hunt ducks and deer, and that was what they did. Every day for a span of a little less than a week, the two would slink out of their boarding and skitter into the forests with guns in hand and hunting permits stuffed in their back pockets. The first day seemed like a lesson; Fritz held the guns and taught Gilbert what to do with himself when he found game in his line of sight. During that first day, Fritz shot down a deer, and the animal fell to the ground before it could dash out and bleed from the bullet wound. Gilbert had the most comical expression of admiration; Fritz almost regretted not bringing a camera to take a picture. Then they moved the deer and sold the carcass whole for a cheap price. After that, Gilbert was given a chance to shoot for himself with Fritz following close behind and handing him useful pointers. Gilbert had a clear knack for shooting ducks, easily aiming into the sky and hitting the birds. They lost a few birds when they couldn't find where the avian creatures hit the ground, but Gilbert managed to bring home five ducks in total to sell. Of course, Fritz only shot down three, one of the birds they ended up losing, and left the hunting to Gilbert.

Despite Gilbert's success in ducks, he was still not satisfied. He wanted to get a deer. Just one deer—that would be his trophy. Yes, he knew he wasn't going to be as amazing or skilled as Fritz, but he wanted to be close enough. Fritz completely supported Gilbert's goals, and whenever they spotted a member of the quadrupedal specie, Fritz would crouch down and mutter quiet instructions to his protégé. However, although Gilbert would take every word to heart, he would only be close to succeeding, but never quite getting there. Why? Because Fritz wouldn't let him.

One time, Gilbert had seen the flash of a white tail, the rustle of leaves, and the beady eyes of a head. He could see the animal clearly and crouched down to take aim at the black eye. The deer was still, staring at something else, and Gilbert knew that success was almost guaranteed, only if his aim remained true. After running all of Fritz's advice through his head, Gilbert fired.

Two shots echoed through the trees.

And the deer ran off, unharmed.

"_What the hell did you do that for?"_ Gilbert shouted, swivelling and glaring at Fritz and his smoking rifle.

Fritz laughed. _"You're too good at this. There is no way I'm going to keep this easy for you,"_ he replied.

The pair spent their days doing that. Whenever Gilbert would take aim at a deer in hopes of success, Fritz would fire a warning blank before Gilbert could shoot, and the target animal would dash away unscathed. Gilbert got frustrated easily, and Fritz would always offer a kind smile and snicker. Nevertheless, the boy felt honoured that Fritz thought that he could handle an extra challenge. But it still irked him, and the countless times he could taste victory would always run out of his hands.

However, one day Gilbert spotted a deer peeking through the bushes. It was grazing on a small patch of grass. Beside him, Fritz seemed to be busy with something else, sidling against a tree and looking in the opposite direction. Gilbert smirked and quickly took his chance, kneeling down so he could remain unseen. He took aim and squeezed the trigger.

_Click._

Gilbert stared and his jaw dropped. He swore he had loaded the rifle only moments before. Quickly he pulled his rifle back, glancing at Fritz. The old man seemed to be still unaware. That meant Gilbert needed to work as quickly as possible. He moved the mechanisms in the back, swinging out the little knife-like part. The gun was loaded. Then that meant it must be jammed. He swung the gun so the barrel was aimed downwards and, just as how he had been taught, he tried to pull the gun apart from the underbelly of the trigger.

The gun fired.

Pain coursed up from Gilbert's foot, but his mind couldn't register it. All he knew was that the deer ran off and blood was staining the dirt underneath him. Fritz had run up to his side and was saying something. The old man was talking in a mixture of calm orders and shouts. Gilbert could see Fritz's blue eyes widening. The next thing he knew, Fritz dropped their equipment and picked Gilbert up.

Then Fritz had brought Gilbert to a hospital nearby. Luckily, the wound had not been serious and the bullet was lodged between two bones, so there was no long-term damage done, although the surgeons removing the ammunition had a tough time. And Gilbert didn't need to stay in the hospital for long either.

However, when he would finally be withdrawn, he and Fritz would have to return to BCWD. Gilbert had burst into tears upon the realisation. It was a stupid thing to cry about. But the week of hunting was important to both Fritz and himself, more so for Fritz, in Gilbert's opinion. And Gilbert had ruined it. He had failed simply because he was too stupid and too careless with his gun. He should have known to stick the safety on and unload the gun before he tried to fix any of the mechanisms, but he had forgotten. Because of his mistake, Fritz had to return to his desk earlier than planned. Fritz must have been so disappointed in Gilbert that day. And that was Gilbert's biggest fear.

When Fritz first visited Gilbert, the boy had been moody. He slumped against the bed pillows, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't dare look at his mentor when the man entered, opting to glare out the window. His bandaged foot was propped up and covered by his blanket. He didn't want Fritz to see his bleeding foot. Fritz had offered Gilbert a small smile. But Gilbert huffed, scowling.

"_Are you okay, Gilbert?"_ Fritz asked. There was a plastic chair set next to the bed, but Fritz sat on the edge of the mattress instead.

"_Yeah…"_ Gilbert replied. His voice shook.

Fritz sighed. The smile disappeared. _"Gilbert, you should have been careful. Didn't I tell you that misfiring is the most common hunting mistake? You could have seriously hurt yourself, or somebody else."_

"_I know…"_ Gilbert's tone was low. _"I should have turned on the safety and unloaded the gun or something… But I didn't, so I got hurt."_

"_Exactly. It could have been worse."_ Fritz paused for a moment, looking at his folded hands on his lap. Then he continued, _"You're getting out of the hospital tomorrow. I'll pick you up and we're going straight to the plane. Don't worry about the bags; I'll pack everything."_

Gilbert sucked in a sharp breath. _"Can't we stay one more day? Just one?"_

"_Why?"_ Fritz looked back at Gilbert. The poor boy was shaking and tears were running down his face.

"_Just one more day of hunting. I won't make any mistakes anymore. I promise,"_ Gilbert sputtered out. _"I'll do everything right and get things done. I'll make sure to be careful with the gun. You won't have to help me all the time!"_

"_Don't worry about it, Gilbert."_

Gilbert sniffled, looking up at Fritz with reddening eyes. With a kind smile, Fritz patted the boy's head.

"_I'm proud of you."_


	13. Reason 1, Part 3

**Yo, Hikou no Kokoro here, bringing you the last part of Reason 1. I hope this part pleases your expectations. But I have to admit though, this chapter got a little unsteady somewhere, due to my poor planning in the previous parts, so some historical parallels and references may go right over your head. However, I do hope that doesn't hurt the effect and change the message I'm aiming for, since I did try to patch up my mistakes. Unfortunately, I will also warn you all that the next chapter might come around a little late, since I hit a terrible writer's block in the beginning, unsure on how I shall execute the part. So I apologise beforehand.**

**Anyway, I forgot to do this in the last chapter (I'm so sorry!). Special thanks to all those who reviewed!**

**Reason 1, Part 1: Crazy Green Earphones and NeonMonkey.**

**Reason 1, Part 2: ForestFireSong, Crazy Green Earphones and firelight3.**

**So, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia._ It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.**

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To Create Perfection

"One death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic."  
—Joseph Stalin

"Reason 1: Tower of Babel, Part 3"

Gilbert and Fritz had become increasingly close as time passed. The two were rarely seen apart. Gilbert had a terrible habit of following the old man around like some sort of lost bird. But Fritz didn't mind too much and would always give the boy a nice pat on the head. The old man would often give Gilbert errands, or "jobs" as Gilbert called them, and the boy wouldn't hesitate to run off and complete every instruction to the letter. They would teach and learn from each other, and would do everything together. They even went back to Canada. And this time around, before Fritz could even fire, Gilbert had sniped a deer in its midstride. Fritz didn't even need to hand Gilbert praise; all he did was pat the boy's head, and the boy already felt like he was soaring over the world. Then they sold the meat for money to buy little Canadian trinkets. Gilbert tried to buy something for Fritz, but Fritz said that he wasn't a child anymore and turned everything down. However, Fritz did manage to find a small plushie of a yellow bird and gave Gilbert that. The boy gratefully accepted the present and narcissistically dubbed the stuffed animal "Gilbird." The two both laughed at the stupid name. The two also bought an antique called the "Happy Flower." It was a plastic figurine of a flower in a pot, and running on solar power, the flower and its leaves "danced" and "swayed." Both little souvenirs made it to BCWD: "Gilbird" found a safe home in Gilbert's pocket as he carried the plushie wherever he went, like the child that he was; the "Happy Flower" rested on the window sill, always sitting there and "dancing" its solar life away.

Despite all the great times Gilbert and Fritz spent together, Fritz's health deteriorated as years passed. The closer Gilbert got to Fritz, the worse the old man's condition was. But it was inevitable anyway. Fritz was an eccentric man; he wasn't a big fan of all those weird drugs that BCWD was spitting out of its science department. And rarely did he follow his doctor's orders, despite Gilbert's pleadings. The first things to go were Fritz's legs. They crumpled underneath him while he was walking down the staircase. That gave Gilbert a horrendous shock. Luckily, Fritz was fine afterwards, but he was bound to a wheelchair, and had to have Gilbert push him around because the old man didn't want to ride in one of those "stupid electric" ones built for "the idiot masses of the lazy." Then Fritz's vision started to go as well. The old man couldn't quite aim properly anymore. His reading glasses' lenses were getting increasingly thicker by the month. And finally, Fritz was beginning to get more and more tired by the day. He would do less and less, and his attention span became as jumpy as a squirrel's. Eventually, he spent most of his time sleeping, and Gilbert would always stand guard beside the sleeping man, growling and threatening the lives of those who dared to think of disturbing Fritz's long naps, and hoping that Fritz would get better faster with undisturbed sleep. Later, Gilbert would get three dogs to keep Fritz company as well. Gilbert hoped that if Fritz busied himself with taking care of the canines, then Fritz would relax and feel better. The trained dogs kept Fritz awake a little bit more as Fritz would have them retrieve him things, and Gilbert was glad that the old man seemed to be doing better while they played with the animals.

But it was inevitable. Gilbert knew it. One day, Fritz would die.

Fritz knew that as well. So as the clock counted away his numbered days, he decided to pull one outrageous stunt.

Frederick Hohenzollern declared the World Domain independent.

It had taken many days and conferences for Frederick to persuade the World Domain "government." Hours were spent behind the desk, writing papers and reports and making speech after speech with Gilbert standing stiff beside his wheelchair. The idea was actually not foreign to the World Domain. A total of five people had suggested that independence. Each proposal was shot down. Fritz was the first to hold a concrete conviction that did not waver under the rejection of the superiors. He listened to each opposition and turned each one on its head. Statistics, theories, laws and philosophies were all tools for Fritz's grand idea. But his biggest persuasion was of an ideal.

"_We must declare it now,"_ he had said. _"We have long separated ourselves from the rest of the world, and we have enough resources and inventions, enough secrets and confidential information, to withstand a war. We have seen advancement that humanity would never have achieved. But we all know that we're still bound by the rest of the world, which does absolutely nothing for us. They refuse to give us 'controversial' resources that are pivotal to continue going. And I know that you know what I mean."_ He had paused for a moment, waiting for his audience to realise the implications, and then continued. _"They say that the sky is the limit. They are right. They say that they permit us to do whatever we want, yet they have placed the limit. We have reached the sky; we have the heavens within our hands, but we need to keep going. And in order to be completely gone from controversy, we must declare independence."_

Frederick repeated those ideas over and over again before his superiors. For weeks upon weeks, the subject was brought up and discussed. Frederick was insistent, unable to take the multiple _no'_s and _possibly'_s coming from the administration's mouths. Nobody quite understood why Frederick was so keen. Gilbert asked once, while he was pushing Frederick down the hallways with one of the dogs trotting beside him, and he got an answer—an answer he didn't quite understand. Maybe it was because the old man was tired and was starting to fall asleep, but this was what he said:

"_Gilbert, I may be a soldier, but I'm a scientist too. This is my personal little experiment. I want to see if science can truly separate from humanity. Maybe reason isn't godless."_

Gilbert tried to ask what Frederick had meant, but the old man was already snoozing away, head lolled to the side and his tired hands lain on his blanketed lap. After that, Gilbert never brought the subject up again.

A day passed. A flag that the world had never seen before was raised to the tip of a flagpole. It was white with light blue lines coursing through the sheet like veins and a large, black dot at the centre. Shouts of a mixture of joy and anger roared through the countries. That day, the whole World Domain rose up in celebration. And the next day, millions upon millions of people in developed nations would follow closely behind. Then, a month later, the world would declare war.

The World Domain declared independence. Frederick had won.

But Gilbert didn't celebrate. Neither did Frederick. They couldn't participate in the cheers, the music, the parties, or the drinks. Gilbert chose not to join; the day was his most dreadful. The boy dragged himself around, depressed, and he refused to break out the beer that was stored in the back. Frederick couldn't join; the day was his happiest. The old man was in bed, unable to move, and he couldn't find the strength the open the beer bottles. Sickness finally caught up to Frederick, and there was no more escape. No medication, procedure, or operation would be able to help him. There were no monitors, tools, or drugs at his bedside; the doctors had lost hope, and Frederick had refused anything other than water and blankets. Nothing would be able to save an old man waiting to die.

Gilbert and Frederick spent all day in the infirmary, ignoring the cheers that echoed from the building across the campus. The old man slept most of the time, tucked in his immaculate bed, but he would sometimes wake up and speak blearily to Gilbert, who refused to leave his side. They talked about only a few things: SS, trinkets from Canada, and their happiest days.

Sometime in the morning, Frederick had opened his eyes to see Gilbert standing at his bedside. One of Frederick's dogs was beside Gilbert; its chin rested on the edge of the bed, black, little eyes looking at the old man. The boy held himself like a soldier, just like how he was trained, and stared out the window. That disconcerted Frederick a bit, and he tapped Gilbert's hand, smiling upwards. A jolt shocked Gilbert out of his trance, and he looked down at Frederick, visibly relaxing as he smiled at his mentor and asked what Frederick needed. The old man shook his head and asked what the weather was.

"_The sky is blue. There's only a little bit of clouds. And the breeze is nice too,"_ Gilbert had replied.

"_So a great day to be outside?"_

Gilbert had shrunk at the notion. His shoulders rode up his neck and he looked to the side, saying nothing.

"_How's everybody else? I heard them preparing some celebrations earlier. Aren't you going to join them?"_

Again, Gilbert said nothing.

Frederick smiled and reached at Gilbert's hands. _"I wish I had brought you to Sanssouci. I know you'd like it there."_

"'_Sanssouci'? Where's that?"_

"_Oh, it's SS. It's really nice there. Just like Canada. One of the few towns that refused all of the new renovations."_

"_Wait, wasn't SS the previous capital? The first one when the World Domain was built, but was moved when planes tried to bomb the headquarters?"_

"_Yeah, it is. It's the most beautiful town you can find here, with its brick buildings, rock streets, gothic churches…"_ Frederick sighed and closed his eyes again. _"'Sanssouci,' the French words for _no worries…_ I love it there; it's so…"_

Frederick's words trailed off when he drifted to sleep. Gilbert pondered the words for a moment, and then decided that he was going to visit "Sanssouci" when Frederick was "better." Then he pushed Frederick's hand back in the blankets and resumed his stiff post, only responding when Ludwig came in and brought food for lunch.

The next conversation was during lunch. Frederick wasn't quite awake when Ludwig came in, but he was an hour later. Gilbert helped the old man sit up against the large pile of pillows at the head. The boy had waited for Frederick to wake up to eat so then they could enjoy the food together. Unfortunately, Frederick refused the spicy soup and simply watched Gilbert eat a bowl of noodles. They didn't talk about anything for a while, and only Gilbert's soft slurping added to the "conversation." And during this moment of painful silence, Frederick noticed something weird.

"_Where's Gilbird?"_

"_Gilbird?"_ Gilbert paused, setting his fork into the bowl with a clink. His eyes were cast downward as he spoke softly. _"I left him next to the Happy Flower on your desk. I dropped him in the mud yesterday on accident, so I got him washed. He's drying right now."_

That was a lie. The day before, Gilbert had went on a rampage in Frederick's office, screaming, pushing, kicking until he let out a horrid, choked cry and sank to his knees. People had panicked upon hearing the noise, but the door was locked so people in uniform had to knock down the door. When the doctors entered, Elizaveta, who was amongst the soldiers who broke the door, had to stop them and tell them to wait until Gilbert calmed down. The scientists had mistaken him for a patient who broke out of his room, judging from his incoherent shouts and the sheer destruction he caused. And during the pained episode, Gilbert knocked down the "Happy Flower" off its stand and threw Gilbird at a wall. The antique shattered on the floor. It was later brushed up off the floor and stuck through the Land Control Facility to help create paper that Francis would use. Gilbird went by relatively unscathed, so Gilbert picked up the stuffed animal and buried the bird deep into one of the drawers of Frederick's desk. Gilbert inherited the desk a year later, and when he found Gilbird in the drawer, he drove to Sanssouci to leave it there.

But Frederick didn't know that. He merely smiled, patted Gilbert's hands, and went back to sleep.

Frederick slept for the rest of the day until late evening. He woke up to find Gilbert sitting on a plastic chair and sleeping with his head on the bed. It seemed like nobody else was there, and when Frederick turned his head to the right, he didn't see the dogs that customarily stood guard with Gilbert. The canines must have been taken away. The old man didn't want to wake up the boy, so he spent a good hour staring up at the ceiling and petting the messy, blond hair. When Gilbert let out a small groan and shifted, Frederick pulled back for a moment to wait for a further response from Gilbert, but the boy didn't move. Then Frederick petted Gilbert again and spoke, his voice soft and croaking.

"_Don't be sad, Gilbert. Today is the happiest day of my life. I have no worries. Tonight, I will not go to Elysian; I will go to Sanssouci."_

Gilbert hiccupped, his head jolting up just a bit. Frederick noticed this, but he continued to run his hand through the boy's hair as if nothing happened. Eventually, the old man slipped back into sleep.

In the middle of the night, at around an hour before midnight, Gilbert jerked awake, eyes widening almost painfully. The room seemed colder, like a damp cave or den. In fact, he was starting to shiver; his lips turned a shade of blue and purple, like a bruise; his face turned abnormally pale and almost translucent; his teeth clattered together. He tried to will himself to stop the show of weakness, biting his lips to prevent the painful clacking of his teeth. When had the room gotten so cold? Was the heating system broken, or did someone turn down the thermostat on this August night? Whatever the cause was, Gilbert didn't care. He just had a foreboding feeling of loneliness, as if something was getting up to leave. Curling into himself and rubbing his shoulders with his hands, the boy glanced around the room. The dogs were no longer by his side; he remembered them coming over earlier in the day, but when one of them tried to get the sleeping Frederick to get up and play fetch with her, Gilbert ordered them taken away. And Frederick, as always, was still there, his chest, thankfully, still rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Gilbert whimpered and scooted his chair closer to Frederick's bed. He folded on himself and rested his cheek on the sheets. His teeth were continuing to click together, and whether he kept his mouth opened or closed, they would still make the terribly annoying noise.

Frederick woke up. Gilbert could hear something shifting in the bed, and then a finger lightly tapped on his shoulder. The boy jerked up again to see Frederick's head turned towards him. A small smile graced the old man's face. The wrinkles that curled around his muscles had wrinkles themselves. And his sharp, blue eyes were faded, blurry and borderline glassy. They were no longer holding the spirit of a resilient, clever man who could glower and laugh all at the same time. And they didn't seem to be looking at Gilbert anymore; instead, they were seeing something past Gilbert's shoulders, through the walls, and down the BCWD campus. Then the old man spoke. His voice cracked, choked, and it couldn't carry any further than the edge of the bed.

"_Aster… the dog… Put a quilt over him. He's shivering…"_

Gilbert gave Fritz a questioning look, lifting his head and staring down. Then he glanced around him. He didn't see any dog in the room, and the door behind him was shut. Nothing would have been able to enter, and Fritz would never have been able to see anything other than Gilbert anyway. Turning back around with his eyebrows raised, Gilbert opened his mouth to ask what Fritz had meant.

Then Fritz threw his blanket over Gilbert.

The movement was weak. The wrist jerked, and the hand trembled. But it got the job done, and the thin, white sheet fluttered over Gilbert's head and slipped over his shoulders and back before Gilbert realised what was going on. Fritz no longer had a blanket to cover his thin body, and he was simply lying in bed with only his hospital scrubs on him. But his smile widened. He patted Gilbert's shoulder, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. No words left his mouth, but Gilbert could sense that Fritz was trying to comfort him. Then the arm dropped, and the hand slid down Gilbert's shoulder.

With one last exhale, Fritz was dead.

Gilbert shot up in a flurry of panic. The blanket slid off his shoulders and crumpled to the ground. He shouted and fumbled for the dead man's hand. Haunting, blue eyes stared past him again, and they scared him. Gilbert called out for Fritz, telling the old man that the joke wasn't funny and begging him to say something. But the heavy, foreboding feeling eventually crushed him and Gilbert fell onto his knees, still imploring. Tears ran down his cheeks in waterfalls and he let out a strangled wail. He gripped Fritz's hand tightly in his two, and he cried into the lifeless palm until the morning, when Francis came to visit with a tray of food. Francis tried to persuade Gilbert to part from the corpse, but in the end, the man had to call for back-up, and he and Elizaveta had to pry Gilbert away kicking and screaming as Fritz was carried away.

Fritz was gone, and Gilbert once again became a curse of the world.


	14. Law 5

**Hiya, Hikou no Kokoro here! At first, I was thinking that I should post this later in the week, but then I thought, I made you guys wait for long enough, so here is Law 5! Some questions will be answered, and more will be made! But as a fair warning, the next chapter may take a while to come out as well, since it's a theory chapter, and those things are hell to write. But I'll make sure to make it in!**

**Special thanks to Crazy Green Earphones, The Hero15, firelight3, Fei, and ForestFireSong for their awesome reviews! I hope to continue to be up to your expectations!**

**So, I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.**

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To Create Perfection

"God, grant me  
The serenity to accept the things I cannot change,  
The courage to change the things I can,  
And the wisdom to know the difference."  
—Reinhold Niebuhr

"Law 5: Corruption"

Then Francis began, "Ludwig is a real genius."

The words jarred Arthur back into attention. He was absolutely confused. He had thought that Francis was going to talk about Gilbert and his strange adoration, or obsession, of Frederick Hohenzollern, not Gilbert's brother. But Francis didn't notice anything when Arthur looked at him strangely, with raised eyebrows and a growing scowl. Their eyes didn't meet. Francis' blue eyes were aimed ahead, somewhere above all the slabs of tombstones. And the older man continued.

"Out of all the partners I could have worked with, I was able to work with the smartest of them. Sure, people looked at him strangely since he seemed like some sort of street urchin and his school grades weren't exactly average either, but he has this undying and unadulterated _potential_; he can improve all he wants, but there's just something that _tells_ you that he can do _better_. He can never reach his full potential, yet he can continue to improve. It's as if he's unstoppable."

Blue eyes sparked and Francis' expression brightened toward absolutely nothing. The compliments kept on rolling out of his mouth.

"I first met him when he was only sixteen. He had already been in BCWD for a little under a year—a year! He was there five years earlier than I could have ever hoped, and I took double programs to whittle myself into the BCWD program one year earlier than normal. It was utterly amazing to see how well he worked. He was in Medical Emergencies division, under Roderick's instruction, and since Sadık, my own mentor when I first started off, was in Roderick's jurisdiction, I got to get my training alongside him. He was a fast learner: by the end of a month, he knew four procedures by heart, and could even pick out my mistakes before Sadık could even notice anything. And only six months' time, I decided that he was the only fellow intern that I thought was worth working with."

Arthur nodded in acknowledgement. His lips were pressed together into a thin line, and rocks seemed to have fallen into the pit of his stomach and upon what felt like a writhing snake. He thought back to Ludwig, the stern man whom he looked upon with untainted admiration. But with Francis' words, a new, twisting feeling wormed its way beside Arthur's admiration, but Arthur couldn't quite identify this "intruder."

Francis' gaze turned back forward again and he sighed through his nose.

"But he told me that he would have never gotten this far without Frederick. Apparently, he and his brother ended up in prison, for some odd reason that I can't seem to imagine, and Frederick spotted them and decided that he was going to move them into BCWD under the jurisdictions of his choice. Ludwig was grateful for Frederick.

"But that was where Ludwig and Gil were different. I met Gil through Ludwig; we hit it off pretty well. But at first, you would think that they're completely different. Ludwig was practical, deliberate—dedicated. On the other hand, Gil seemed frivolous, impulsive, and entirely unorganised. He never quite kept his loyalties where they should be. I never saw him as often as I saw Ludwig, since he was all the way in a completely different _division_, so for years, I had been mistaken into thinking that Gil was just a man who spent more time lounging around and chasing after Elizaveta—remember her?"

Arthur did remember her, and how she was reading a book and eating a boxed lunch while on guard duty, and how she seemed to have been sitting on the side-lines of the hallway. She was an awfully pretty woman.

"Instead, he was—is—just like Ludwig. He has the same raw potential, and he has the same exact sense of duty and dedication. He just doesn't…" Francis sucked in a breath, pausing, and then continued, "He just doesn't know what to do with anything. Like, he would always chase after Elizaveta, but he didn't understand that he did it out of courtship, and not out of rivalry, and when he got jealous, he would get angry and take it out on somebody else. And that was what made Gil and Ludwig seem so completely different. Unlike Ludwig, Gil needed time to be able to stand on the same page as everybody else. And because of how he couldn't quite adapt, he only realised when things were too late, when everything was too forgone to be considered recoverable.

"Normally, I would tell you about how Gil didn't realise that he loved Elizaveta until she married, but I think you can already piece that together. Besides you're probably more interested in his relation with Frederick, and not his love life, am I right?"

Arthur didn't answer. Francis didn't need one anyway. There was only a short moment of silence, one that was not filled by Francis' movements but by the wind, and then he adjusted the rifle on his shoulder and started again.

"Gil has only known Frederick for nine years. But Frederick has been dead for three. So Gil only knew Frederick alive for a good six years.

"From where you stand, you see that the six years must have allowed Gil to develop a pure adoration for Frederick, and Gil must have developed a dependence on him as time went on. In a way, you'd be right. Gil likes him more now than all those nine years ago. But you don't realise that Gil had hated him. He absolutely hated Frederick. I have never seen such unadulterated loathing before. You may think that your 'hatred' for me or your brother—"

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath.

"—must be stronger, but that 'hatred' is a simple intolerance. Gil couldn't even stand being beside Frederick, much less work with him, and seemed to only strive to run away from the facility or to make his life miserable. I don't even know how many times the guards and people of the Humane Control department had to fight Gil away from Frederick, and I wouldn't be surprised if Frederick had to fend for himself. Gil once told me that he hated because Frederick ruined his life or was secretly trying to kill him or his brother—I don't know, but it had to be something extreme. After all, Gil is an extreme guy; there is no moderation for him.

"And that lasted for five years. It took Gil a total of five years to learn who Frederick truly was, and to finally figure out what gratitude was. And after that, Gil turned completely around: He absolutely loved Frederick and would do anything for him. During that time, I rarely ever see Gil leaving Frederick's side, and they got along so well together that I was almost afraid that they would get along better than my wife and I. So when Frederick died, Gil was crushed. He completely broke down. I had to call Elizaveta to help me to physically make Gil part from the body. He couldn't even say the eulogy during the funeral a week later either. And for about a month, he shrank away into isolation; not even Ludwig could get him to come out. In the end, we just had to wait for him. When Gil did finally own up to Frederick's death, he seemed fine, and he easily took back the swings of things, taking Frederick's role and rank, as dictated by the will and recommendations.

"Unfortunately, I know that Gil never quite got over it. He still gets depressed, and although he only comes around here on the anniversary of Frederick's death, he visits one too many times, and leaves gifts that are more suitable for the living than the dead." The grip on the rifle tightened, and a small click could be heard. "He tells me that he's just angry that Frederick died so early—that Frederick was stupid for not exploiting the phenomenal medical care or that God was being cruel in taking Frederick away.

"But really, I think it's because of regret. Gil knew Frederick for a total of six years. And he had spent five of them hating Frederick, and only one year actually appreciating the company. He had spent more time and effort being angry and spiteful and altogether making life miserable, when he could have been happy working with Frederick.

"It's a sad story. He's so desperate because it's too late. Nowadays, he's always acting like he's trying to prove himself."

Then Francis fell silent, staring downwards with that sombre expression. Arthur realised, throughout the whole story, Francis' tone was strangely flat, almost distant. It didn't seem to ride upon waves of enthusiasm like usual. Instead, there was a sense of omnipotence, although the content was hardly so, but it was as if Francis had stepped back and merely watched a reality not immediately his own. He may have been a friend of Gil and was a part of all the antics, but he seemed to be merely an observer.

Finally, Arthur spoke, "Why did you tell me all this?"

Francis shrugged and smiled at Arthur. "Some people believed that you should know all this. But Gil won't tell you; Frederick can't, so I have to."

"But why?" Arthur asked again. "What is the message I'm supposed to be benefitting from this?"

This made Francis pause. He looked over Frederick's grave again and thought, his mouth pushed into a strange pout. "Maybe it's to tell you to be grateful for whom you have as a mentor, and treat him well, because no matter how hard you try, you won't be changing mentors anytime soon." Francis turned and winked.

Arthur scowled. "You're only saying that to try to make me more agreeable."

"Of course I am!" Francis laughed.

"Then think again. There is no bloody way that I'm going to get along with you just because of some biography about Beilschmidt."

"All right, all right." Francis shook his head. Then he turned around, his heels scratching against the dirt so that spiralling marks remained, and began back down the path from where they came. "Now we're done here. Alistair has been waiting for us for a long time."

"Wait."

The BCWD staff member stopped and spun back around. "What?"

"I've been wondering, what about you? How were things with your own mentor, Adnan?"

"Pretty decently." Francis shrugged and pushed the strap further up his shoulder. "We got along."

Arthur faltered for a second. His tongue subconsciously ran across his teeth as he thought whether or not to ask his second question. After all, like all the other questions, this one had been bugging him for a while ever since Sadık had refused him only a day before. On the other hand, Francis would again play the "confidential" game again, and just withhold the answer, as if it were some sinister ball of light. But in the end, Arthur asked anyway. "Then why doesn't Adnan take any more interns?"

"Because he only needed to teach one person; at this point, he shouldn't even be in the assimilation officer lists, since I already filled that requisite," Francis answered. "But I ended up switching to Roderick's department in the last second, so I double as a member of Medical Emergencies as well, and that makes it void."

"Did you know that would happen?"

Francis nodded. "Yep. I had finished the training anyway, so Sadık isn't too worried, even though the requisite isn't 'completed.' He can always reject interns anyway."

"Then why did you switch? You said you were done so you could have left it at that."

Francis bit his lip and sighed. It was obvious that he was pondering whether or not to answer that truthfully, although the decision-making seemed to be going a little slower. Arthur wasn't surprised though; he knew that something like this would have happened some time later during the day. Francis never answered the important questions. It was always the "why" and "what" that seemed to scare any information away from Arthur.

"I knew I wouldn't be able to handle the job for long."

Arthur drooped down a little, rather disappointed. The answer had been vague, and held little to no gravity. It was no better than when Francis had simply replied with, "Confidential." Nevertheless, Arthur hoped to press far enough to at least get clues that he could use to piece things together. "Why?" he asked, expecting something along the lines of "Confidential," per usual, or a vague reply.

"Euthanasia. I had specialised in euthanasia."

Arthur jerked up. His green eyes nearly bugged out of his head and his jaw fell agape. Thoughts barely registered through his head, yet things started to make sense. A cold and hard sort of sense, ranging from why Francis would say nothing to what made Sadık's reputation. Stumbling a step closer, Arthur snapped, "_What_?"

A smile crossed over his face. "Don't worry. I'm not going to teach you anything about that. We already have enough people in the Humane Control department. We're working as an extension of the Medical Emergencies; that's why we report to Ludwig." Francis waved a hand up and down, beckoning Arthur over, or metaphorically patting Arthur's ducked head. "Now, let's go. I bet your brother is starting to get hungry, and that car can really heat up under this sun." Then he turned and walked down the path towards the gates of the cemetery.

Arthur hesitated. He stood alone beside the graves, watching Francis walk away with the rifle hanging off his back and its shining barrel sticking up in the air over his head. An image flitted through the back of his mind: Francis and Sadık as grotesque head hunters, their lab coats covered in the blood of the suffering and fingers holding onto syringes of poison and drugs designed as a brand of facilitated suicide. Quickly, Arthur shook his head. He may not be fond of Francis, but he couldn't quite see that image as being a truth of the past. If there was a crime the man would commit, it would be something completely different and maybe even worse than "facilitated suicide"; possibly it would be intangible—a damage against the psychology of the victims or a mere theory. Finally, Arthur walked after Francis, glancing back at Frederick's grave. The potato was gone; the ants must have been proficient enough to have taken the whole produce away underneath their noses.

The sun was starting to set by the time Arthur caught up to Francis by the gate. It was getting late, and they knew it. But Arthur was honestly baffled when he looked up at the sky and saw the colourful gradients streaking across the sky and turning the world from white to orange, orange to red, red to purple, and purple to dark blue, which showed the dotting stars at the zenith. He hadn't realised that the presumably "short" story somehow helped hours to pass by above their heads. In fact, he hadn't counted on the little talk beside the grave to have taken long at all, and he felt the pressure of a time constraint.

"Where do you want to go eat?" was the first thing Francis asked when Arthur slowed to his side and the two continued down the sidewalk. "There are some really nice old-fashioned cafes and restaurants in the SS; most of them are French and Italian, if you're into that sort of cuisine. I'm really partial to the one called 'Beau Rêve.' It's a really nice place, and the food is _magnificent_. I would be all over their dishes if they weren't all so pricey."

Arthur scowled. French food didn't appeal to him. It was too flashy and too rich, like everything else that came from that European country, and he wasn't in the mood to eat expensive food that would easily be wolfed down. Besides, he had other pressing matters.

"I think I'll pass," Arthur replied with a larger scowl. He couldn't believe that he was going to miss a free meal. "If the trip back is anywhere close to the trip to, I'm going to be really late for prior arrangements."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "What other arrangements? I thought I told you that you'll need the whole day off."

"I have another _job_, you bloody git. I can't just change up the schedule all willy-nilly!"

"Where? What do you do?"

"Waiter at the little Chinese restaurant called 'Zhong Guo De Fan' or something weird like that."

"That one…" Francis muttered, nodding slowly and slowly allowing the tips of his mouth to move towards. "What time do you need to get there?"

"Eight o'clock."

Francis glanced up at the sky as they rounded the corner. "So about an hour and a half?" He didn't notice the sharp inhale beside him. "All right, you'll make it. We would even have a nice gap of time to take a break and grab a snack along the way. So relax. The trip will only take an hour."

"An hour?" Arthur screeched, stopping dead in his tracks and swivelling around. "How can it be an hour when we came here in three?"

Francis smirked and winked. "I thought that you and your brother were enjoying the passing scenery, so I decided to take more than a _few_ detours."

"For two bloody hours? _Why_?"

"The question is, 'Why not?'"

"You bloody—"

Arthur couldn't finish his insult, too angry to think of something offensive enough. Instead, he simply let out a frustrated groan and stomped back to the car, cursing the frivolous man underneath his breath. Francis either loved to waste time or made irritating Arthur a pastime. Both options seemed equally plausible. After all, by the time Arthur had made it to the car and turned around to wait for his mentor, Francis was laughing and taking his sweet time as he walked towards him like some sort of model on the catwalk. In a flash of a moment, Arthur was tempted to throw a large rock at Francis' head just to make him hurry up.

Fortunately, it didn't get that far and Francis made it to the car without projectiles flying past his ears. He passed his ID card over the hood of the car and once again the vehicle lit up and the doors slid up. Arthur slid behind the driver's seat without second glance.

"Seems like somebody is pretty engrossed in his book."

One of Arthur's large eyebrows rose up as he strapped himself in and leaned forward to see what Francis was talking about. There, in the passenger's seat, was his brother, reading a book. Alistair was slumped deep into his seat and his leg was propped on the dashboard and stump too short to lean against anything. And resting on his raised lap was a hardcover book. The redhead man seemed to be staring intently at the pages, chewing on his thumbnail. The sight was surprising, in an amusing way. Arthur couldn't help himself from saying, "So you're a little bit more sophisticated than I had presumed."

"Sod off…" Alistair snapped. He turned one page, scanned it, and then snapped the book shut. Beside him, Francis slipped into the driver's seat and closed the doors. "I got bored. There isn't anything else to stare at."

"We're not saying that reading is a _bad_ thing," Francis said much like how a parent would talk to a child, his tone holding a sniggering condescension. The car began whirring and clicking as he pulled away from the side and started the vehicle down the road back towards Central. Quickly, the archaic building with the spires disappeared from view, and the little town of SS-24 was far behind them.

"We just didn't think that you actually know how to _read_," Arthur remarked.

Alistair pushed himself up, glaring at his brother in the rear-view mirror. The scowl deepened, and he suddenly turned and threw the book at Arthur's chest. The younger blond easily caught the book and allowed it to fall onto his lap, sneering at his brother. Then he held it in his hand and read the title. _Theories and Hypotheses of 2199_, it read. Finding the subject matter rather strange, he flipped through the pages to see if it wasn't some sort of dirty magazine with pornography scattered through the images. But instead, diagrams, ranging from physiology to geology to physics, and dense walls of text along with a few handwritten notes coated each and every page.

"Did you actually read this?" Arthur asked, arching an eyebrow and scanning a few paragraphs. Some of these facts were quite bewildering and he wondered whether or not he had seen this information in his learning.

"'Course I did," Alistair snapped. "What do you think I am? An idiot like you? I had to do something while you two were off doing whatever."

"I'm not an idiot! I just…"

Francis cut him off. "I'm actually pretty surprised that you chose that book. I thought you were going to choose one of those sensationalism ones, with the telepathy, space travel, and major discoveries. _Theories and Hypotheses_ is a really top-notch series—really dry too." He glanced at Alistair for a brief moment before returning his eyes on the dirt and pebble road. "It's not something you read as leisure."

Alistair scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why the hell do you two act like this is some sort of big deal?" His hard, green eyes turned towards the window, watching the trees streak by. "It was the first thing I grabbed. Everything in there is trash, so it's not like I could really choose anything anyway."

Francis chuckled and shook his head.

But Alistair snapped at him, like how an irritated dog would nip at a nuisance, preventing any other flippant comments from being made. Francis tried again to say something else, but Alistair barked an incoherent sound. It went on for a few times before Francis finally gave up and said nothing. A few minutes later, Arthur tried to speak up, but Alistair cut him off as well. The redhead had killed any sort of conversation that could have been made. Once again, the car ride went by with silence, except Alistair was the one who had shot down every possible conversation starters, rather than vague grunts and responses.

It wasn't until skyscrapers came into view did Alistair say anything. "Where are we going to eat?"

"We're getting Chinese," Arthur replied.

Alistair scrunched his nose up. "Again? We just had take-out yesterday."

"We can always go somewhere else," Francis chimed in with a smile. "There's a gorgeous French café near my home. It doesn't sell anything fancy, but compared to the normal rations and take-out, the cuisine is exquisite."

Arthur scowled at the idea, but he didn't bother to fight against it. "Fine. Then just drop me off at my workplace and bring my brother home when you're done eating."

"What?" Alistair craned his back to glare at his brother through the space between the two front seats. "You have work again?"

"Of course I do!" Arthur shouted back. "I'm always going to work around this time! Unlike you."

"But you said you had a day off!"

"I do! From BCWD!"

"You said you were going back home in the evening!"

"When you were _staying_ at home! I was going to go back just to check on you before I went off."

"Then why don't you just _tell_ me these sort of things?"

Arthur leaned forward, arms crossed over his chest, and sneered. "Why do you care?"

"I _don't_, you little shit."

Then the argument ended there with Alistair turning back around and sitting in his seat properly. A scowl was still traced over his countenance, while a smug smirk was on Arthur's and the BCWD intern leant back against his seat. He could see his eldest brother glance up at the rear-view mirror and huffed.

Although the two Kirklands seemed "satisfied" with this sort of closure, Francis wasn't. The driver used one hand and ran his fingers through cropped, red hair. "Don't worry. I'll be with you. It'll be like a dinner date," he laughed.

"Go away!" Alistair swatted the hand away and jerked his head to the side, as if he were attempting to bite some fingers off. There was even the sound of teeth clacking and the toe of his shoe hitting the bottom of the dashboard.

Francis laughed again and returned his hand to the wheel and the car fell silent again, as it tended to do when either of the Kirklands seemed to be in the seats with Francis. But this time around, he didn't seem to mind so much, as the drive was short and he kept the radio on to switch to different channels when the commercials on one of them came up.

In about fifteen minutes, they entered Central with Francis speeding down the streets. The vehicle went through the BCWD campus at one point, and Arthur raised his bushy eyebrows as the Land Control facility came into view and slowly moved behind them. He was about to lecture Francis not to take anymore detours, but he peered around the seat and at the time hanging above the windshield. There was some time remaining. So Arthur simply said that Francis should hurry up and left it at that. Francis didn't reply. He merely continued driving until the BCWD buildings hid behind other white and silver architecture.

Finally, Arthur's workplace came into view. It was a brownish, old-looking place that held the foundation of a skyscraper above it. The owner had obviously tried to mimic the design of Industrial Revolution architecture of China with its clay brick covering and Chinese decorations, such as red lanterns, unused firecrackers, oriental window frames, and gilded Chinese words. The "shop" stuck out like a neon sign in the dark, but the owner probably had purposefully made it so.

"Was that quick enough for you?" Francis asked Arthur as he pulled the vehicle up near the sidewalk and parked.

Arthur glanced up at the clock. "Yes." Quickly, he pulled off his safety belt and began to carefully clamber out, careful of the incoming traffic.

In front of him, Francis did the same, surprising Arthur, and the two went around the car and walked onto the sidewalk. Oriental music clinked from a broadcast radio inside the little restaurant, and the two could already smell some of the fried dishes. Arthur moved to walk inside, but Francis stopped and turned around, calling Arthur to wait for a moment. His hand moved over the passenger seat door, and the window slid open, revealing Alistair glaring up at the two blonds and propping his one leg on the dashboard.

"Need help getting out?" Francis offered, ducking under the roof.

"No," Alistair replied. His green eyes glanced towards his brother, who was wondering why he was waiting for Francis and his brother when they could have been driving off to somewhere else. "If we're just going to stop here, then I'm staying."

"Why? It will be nice to stretch your leg for a bit. You've been sitting here all day."

The edges of Alistair's mouth turned downwards even more. "I don't care." A hand waved Francis away, demanding that Francis leave. "Now go finish whatever you need, and come back over. I'm starving."

With a sigh and the shake of his head, Francis complied and allowed the door to slide shut again. "He seems quite moody today."

"He's always like that," Arthur grumbled, waiting for Francis to walk beside him before turning around. "So what do you want? You're not bloody escorting me, are you?"

"Oh, no, no, no." Francis chortled. "I know the manager here. I'm just stopping by to say hello." Then, he winked and offered his left arm. "But if you want me to escort you, mon chéri, I can do that too."

Arthur slapped the arm away.

Then the two men entered the building, Arthur fuming and Francis continuing to laugh. The ambiance within the eatery was quite similar to the one made outside. Some of the same Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling and off of broken chandeliers. Walls were painted with pictures of traditional, Asian scenery, such as misty mountains, long and arching bridges, and tall stalks of bamboo plants. The air was filled with the scent of food and the sharp tang of spices. And accompanying the sounds of clanging pots and clinking chopsticks on bowls were conversations made in a large variety of East Asian languages ranging from Chinese and Korean to Vietnamese and Thai. Although almost everybody was wearing casual clothes, a number of people were wearing _Tangzhuang_, _Yukata_, and other traditional uniforms. Presumably, these individuals were all hosts and waiters, for they were the only ones with trays of food and were walking around handing out platters and cups.

A man carrying two Chinese bamboo steamers immediately spotted them. Like the décor, he too appeared stereotypically Chinese. His coat was gilded with various swirls and calligraphy, and his black pants were paired up with black Kung Fu shoes. But it wasn't just his uniform that gave him his Chinese look. He looked naturally Chinese, with his pitch black hair, which was tied into a low ponytail that reached to the middle of his shoulder blades, and high cheekbones. Even his dark brown eyes had the "slanted" look that many Asians have been made fun of for.

But maybe they looked like that because he was angry. After all, he was storming over to the two blonds with a large scowl traced upon his face.

"Arthur!" the Chinese man snapped. His accent was almost too apparent.

"What?" Arthur snapped back. "I swear that I'm not late!" He cast Francis a hateful glare, warning the man that if the car clock had been lying about the time, then he was going to start ripping limbs off a torso.

"You're not late, but why is _he_ here?" The Chinese man gestured at Francis. His jet eyes were hardening.

"I'm just visiting a former colleague and saying hi," Francis defended himself. "It's been a while since we've talked, Yao."

"It's _Mr. Wang_ to you, Bonnefoy," Yao snapped, slamming one foot against the floor. Then his eyes flickered back to Arthur. "How are you two associated? This trash can't be your superior, can he?"

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but Francis immediately replied for him, pushing him to the side a little. "Yes, I can. He is indeed my protégé."

The look of outrage fell into one of horror. Yao's narrowed eyes widened, and his lips became parted as his jaw went down. But the expression had been present for only a brief moment, and he gritted his teeth again. "Arthur, go do your job," he commanded, raising his chin a bit. "Yong-Soo isn't on this shift, so you'll have to take over his tables along with yours." When Arthur faltered and tried to make an objection, Yao again told him to leave, and finally the blond did, shooting the two a confused glance. After all, the youngest had been implicitly scolded at for something he didn't quite understand or say. Only when Arthur weaved away from them did Yao turn back to Francis.

"Don't you _dare_ corrupt him too with your pretty words and 'assimilation' tactics," Yao spat.

The blond man tilted his head and stuck his hands into his pockets. "I haven't corrupted anybody." He sighed through his nose. "I don't get why you're so snappy about something I haven't done."

"Yes, you have." Yao's hands lowered, but kept the steamers well-balanced upon his fingers and palms. "Arthur's a natural dreamer, and I'm not going to let anybody change that about him."

"And his dream consists of BCWD, just like Kiku's. Why don't you understand that?"

"Don't bring Kiku's name into this! He's _dead_!"

Francis shook his head, taking a slow inhale from exasperation. "No, he isn't. He just got promoted, and now he's going to the border branches to do what he had always wanted as an assimilation officer. You should be proud of him; he has worked hard to get to where he is now. It hurts to watch an older brother treat his younger like this."

Yao sneered. "Those who throw away ethics for science are no better than metal and wires to me." Then he turned and walked away.

"That's disappointing…"

Then Francis too left. The sky was still darkening when he stepped out, and only a sliver of pink could be seen in the sky. His stomach felt strangely heavy, and he spent one moment simply staring up at the candy-like colour. When he was done, he went around the car again and slipped inside, checking to see if the power storage was enough to get him and Alistair to the café on the other side of Central. Alistair didn't say anything when Francis turned on the engine and all the redhead gave was an irritated glare, but Francis spoke anyway.

"I sort of regret going back."


	15. Theory 4

**Hiya! Hikou no Kokoro here again, with another Theory chapter. This little thing took a while for me to get done because of its drier content, so I apologise. The next chapter will, hopefully, come around soon. I got a bit of a block in the beginning of the chapter, but I know what I'm doing for the last half of it. After all, we have reached the first developmental checkpoint! Hooray! Things will be coming down from here on out.**

**Special thanks for my reviewers: firelight3, The Hero15, Crazy Green Earphones, Rufescent, and ForestFireSong. Thank you. You are all the reason why I continue writing this.**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It rightfully belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I simply own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"The right to swing my fist ends where the other man's nose begins."  
—Oliver Wendell

"Theory 4: Moving"

Arthur had a tough time after visiting SS-24 with Francis and Alistair. I would suppose that everybody else would have if he or she were in his shoes, but Arthur did, after all, have a terrible habit of making things worse than they already were.

Arthur had gotten off work at midnight. Of course, the restaurant had closed at around eleven, but since his colleagues had all scampered off once costumers began to file away, he was the last one, along with the owner, to close the restaurant, clean off the dishes and tables, and lock the doors. I know that Yao had planned it that way. That week, Arthur and Yong-Soo were the ones assigned the duty to clean up the shop with Yao, who would always stay after hours, but with Yong-Soo gone doing whatever on his day off, Arthur was alone for the hour. And that gave Yao enough time and space to talk to him.

If my memory had served me well through these years, Yao only told Arthur to quit BCWD. There was no big confession; that would be during another time in the future. He didn't even mention Kiku. In fact, Arthur, being the sharp man who could recall any anomaly, had asked about Kiku, mentioning how he had met the Asian man in BCWD and noticed when Kiku had suddenly turned cold when he had confessed that he worked in a Chinese restaurant. But Yao fell silent for a moment, and then spoke about Francis. All the Chinese man could say was how Francis was a terrible man, like he was some sort of siren to stay away from. He was a sadist, a murderer, and most of all, a corrupter. His sweet words and comforting actions were only skin-deep, barely disguising a demon meant to drag innocent ideals into the depths of an icy cold Hell.

It made me sick.

But I didn't matter. I wouldn't say the same for Arthur. I never knew what he thought about Yao's propaganda. His expression was more or less flat, and he paid more attention to the dirt on the tables than on Yao's offered advice. However, I could safely assume that he was irritated—not necessarily angered, but just irritated. After all, he had been working with Francis for a number of days already, and he had already developed his own impressions on the BCWD staff member especially after the trip to SS-24 where he learnt a chunk of who Francis was when Yao was supposed to have known him. Who was Yao to assume that Arthur couldn't get his own information and make his own opinions? It was almost offensive. After all, even I knew that Yao was only saying these sorts of things to get him to quit BCWD for reasons Yao didn't disclose.

In the end, Arthur dismissed right when the lights began to turn off. Yao didn't stop him, and Arthur was glad for that. He probably wouldn't be able to take any more vague persuasions Yao attempted, and the last thing he needed was to be fired because he lost his temper; he needed the job to sustain him and his brother and the rest of his studies. So he changed out of his uniform, which was a light blue _Yukata_ handed down from a former employee, and walked back home, hoping to just collapse into bed and fall asleep without any problems coming up.

But luck would not have that. Alistair had arrived back home earlier than Arthur—possibly an hour or so, but I wasn't keeping tack. But instead of going straight off to bed, as he normally would, Alistair was wide awake and was glaring at the door from a seat in the small dining room of the flat. His foot was flat on the floor and his crutches were leaning neatly against the table behind him. And in his lap were his hands holding papers and an envelope. Two things were wrong with this: One, Alistair never sat properly for he had a nasty habit of slumping and propping his foot upon a table with his crutches thrown aside; and two, the Kirkland brothers, since arriving to the World Domain, rarely received paper mail unless the message was something important, such as a contract or a form, and should and could not be changed. So when Arthur walked into the flat, he knew something was terribly wrong. He didn't even greet his brother. Instead, he immediately asked, _"What happened?"_

"_We're bankrupt."_

"_What? What? _What_?"_ Arthur stomped over and snatched the papers from his brother. He was being awfully rude about everything, folding and unfolding random papers and scanning everything, but I wouldn't blame him. _"What did you do?"_

"_What did _I_ do? I should be asking you that! What the bloody hell did _you_ do?"_

Arthur didn't react to that, instead tearing open a thin envelope from BCWD. A card fell out and he picked it up and flipped the plastic around. It was his ID card, and though I won't go into too much detail, but I will say that the words 'Paid Internship' ran along the bottom of his profile. He was a bit relieved that he had been accepted into the program, and then he carefully tucked the card into his pocket.

I don't quite remember all the words on the paper that well and some of the terms and information had gone right over my head that time so long ago. But the message was obvious. An order had been made to retract the scholarship bank account, which Arthur saved and used since he had finished the prerequisites early, in exchange for being a part of the Paid Internship program. Immediately Arthur's face had drained of all colour. He had used the remnant of the scholarship to his advantage, applying it for not only his education, but also for housing and food. At that point, he had already drained all of the money in the original scholarship, but that didn't mean that there was nothing left; in fact, he had used the scholarship account as his own personal bank account, stashing away his salary since he didn't want to be bothered by creating a separate spot for himself. But with that letter, everything was gone. There was no more money for housing, food, utilities, and other necessities. The two brothers didn't even have a back-up, for Alistair had long exploited his veteran benefits on alcohol and medical reasons.

I had thought Arthur wouldn't make it; what were they going to do? The deadline for rent was coming up, along with the bills and the credits and loans. How was he going to pay for all of that without any of the money he had earned? The retraction had all been a mistake, and the Kirkland needed to do something to fix it.

Arthur and Alistair both blew up into arguments, screaming and pointing accusingly at the other. Alistair had attacked Arthur's laziness of not making another bank account and relying so heavily on what was given to him by the scholarship program. Then Arthur attacked Alistair's person as a whole, noting how the redhead was a good-for-nothing leech who drank too much whiskey and stayed at home doing everything unproductive. Alistair had tried to defend himself and said that he had gone off as a soldier in order to help Arthur's dreams and goals, but his pride had gotten in the way and the redhead accused Arthur for being the fool who signed his name away before reading the full contract. The shouting match went on for most of the night until Arthur resolved it by saying that he was going to talk to some superiors to fix this predicament.

Unfortunately, he only had three hours of sleep until he had to get up again to walk himself back to BCWD. He became tired yet moved constantly in attempt to fight off oncoming sleep. Dark bags appeared below his eyes, and I swore that I saw him almost nod off as he waited for the street lights to tell him to cross the busy roadway. His mood didn't get better either; he snapped at the poor fellows who passed him whether or not they had bumped into him.

The first person he tried to speak with was Ludwig. Arthur went straight towards that man's office once he had stepped foot into the BCWD campus. And Arthur was angry. I wasn't surprised that Ludwig had shot him an irritable look; he clearly deserved it after storming into a superior's office without so much of a greeting.

But Ludwig was an, let's say, an understanding man, although he might not have appeared so, with his stern face and deep frown that mirrored Arthur's. The two did not beat around the bush: Ludwig asked what was wrong, and Arthur answered—at first the green-eyed man had said that sleep-deprivation sucked, but then he realised that the problem was his own and not Ludwig's, so at least he knew the decency to correct himself.

Luckily, Ludwig was rather sympathetic to Arthur's plight. He did mention that BCWD tended to use whatever Machiavellian methods in order to obtain resources, such as finances, and the tendency only had increased when the war began. But don't mistake me. In no way did he degrade what BCWD did, but who would catch that except me? Arthur certainly was too angry to notice those sorts of fine details, as he usually was, and mind did tend to use propaganda for itself. So Arthur, naturally, felt that Ludwig was on his side and politely pleaded a solution, which was more or less the restoration of the account with all or at least most of the money that was there. However, Ludwig shook his head. The suggestion was not possible. The money was probably long gone, used in the war effort or in some minor lab branches near the border of the World Domain, although BCWD could easily create a new bank account for Arthur to use. But of course, that was not satisfactory enough. I wouldn't have left it at that either.

The quickest and easiest option had been to board with somebody else. It was only logical if Ludwig couldn't pull enough strings in order to give Arthur back his money. After all, Arthur wasn't completely broke and unemployed. He could work up something to pay off the loans with the paid internship and his job at Yao's Chinese restaurant. He just needed to do something about his debt before it doubled and squeezed all of his time from his education. So he gaining back his independence wasn't entirely farfetched. In addition, if Arthur boarded with somebody else, there would be more room for anyone who got recruited into BCWD or Central in the near future. Thus, it would be more or less a win-win. BCWD would get its new funds, Arthur could spend less dedication on necessities, and a stranger could have an easier time to find a home. I didn't think this would have been too bad.

But of course, Arthur wouldn't think so. Despite having "solved" his plight, he still needed to find somebody willing to share personal space and resources to him. And not only would the person have to be generous enough to give, but whoever the "poor sap" was would have to be able to tolerate an invalid. Obviously, Arthur was never a _problem_, but his brother was. Who would ever want to live with a foul-tempered redhead whose only purpose seemed to be to leech on whiskey bottles?

At that moment, Arthur had considered himself unfortunate. I would have disagreed, as usual, since we never really agreed on anything anyway.

Francis had walked right in, swinging the door open with a smile and a flourish. He may have been extravagant, as both Arthur and Ludwig had shot him irritable, but at least he was happy. He was there because he was wondering where Arthur had run off. His inquiry was immediately answered, so he didn't bother to ask. Instead, Francis ended up asking, _"What's wrong?"_

"_Kirkland needs to find someone to board with,"_ Ludwig had answered.

Francis' blue eyes had brightened significantly and his smile widened. _"He can board with me. My home is big enough for three, and I don't even need to worry about rent or mortgages. I'd _love_ to have some company."_

Arthur didn't even think before he shot the offer down. He crossed his arms over his chest and snapped how he didn't want to live with a "frog" or a "procrastinating moron who could mistake his own brain for good cuisine." Francis was, undoubtedly, displeased, and threw out his own insults towards the "_rosbif_" or the "ingrate [whose] immaturity couldn't even take some honest advice such as fixing his eyebrows." The argument wasn't even noteworthy; I'm even wondering why I can pull quotes of that from my own memory. But I was prone to remember the more useless things, wasn't I?

It wasn't until Ludwig slammed his hand against the table did the useless talk end. More hoping to end the problem and push it off his plate rather than trying to get the two to get along, Ludwig made the final decision and ordered that Arthur take advantage of Francis' order. It was a done deal. There was no more need for any further discussion, so the duo was free to leave.

Arthur was more than apprehensive. But if I were he, I would have finished counted my blessings by then. There were more than enough problems, and a "bad day" such as this was nothing compared to what I have seen.


	16. Law 6

**Yo, Hikou no Kokoro here, bringing you another Law chapter. This time around, we're focusing a bit on Alistair. We have finally passed through my first developmental checkpoint, so here on out, you'll be seeing things slowly spiral down and answers coming up. But anyway, I probably won't be able to update as often as I do now, unfortunately, but I will try.**

**Anyway, special thanks to my wonderful reviewers: firelight3, Crazy Green Earphones, and Fei. You guys are the reason why I keep writing! Thank you!**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It rightfully belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I merely own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"While there is perhaps a province in which the photograph can tell us nothing more than what we see with our own eyes,  
There is another in which it proves to us how little our eyes permit us to see."  
—Dorothea Lange

"Law 6: One Moment, Please"

Alistair had never thought that he would be riding in Francis' car. It wasn't that he didn't like the vehicle—oh, no, it was a nice thing with its clean and slick design and motor, and the ride wasn't sickening either, although the sun repeatedly shone at his eyes as it began to set towards the west, and that was annoying. It was simply that he never thought he was going to be seeing Francis again. When he was brought all the way to SS-24 and back in order to eat at some strange French restaurant, he had thought that it would be a "one time" thing. There would be no more "Francis." Alistair had wanted things that way.

And then Arthur finally told Alistair that Francis was Arthur's mentor.

Well, that had explained a lot. Actually, it explained only a few things, but they were the more important ones, like how Arthur would always complain about stupid Frenchmen, or how Francis seemed to have gotten into his head that living with an irritating Brit and a jaded brother would be a great idea—it was not, but Francis never seemed mind—or how Alistair suddenly found himself in Francis' car and on his way, with his brother, to move into Francis' residence. Alistair never quite understood how exactly that happened, since the details had alluded him at the time and Arthur wasn't the go-to person when it came to explaining complicated situations, but at least he had gotten the summary of the reason, and that was more than he could ever hope for, even during the times in the future when he would never seem to be listening to what was going on around him.

So Alistair had been pretty confused on the ride towards Francis' house, which wasn't actually that far from either BCWD campus or Arthur's flat but it seemed like it was, whether because Francis' was taking an outrageous amount of detours, or because Alistair hated the ride over. Alistair had originally wanted to sit in the passenger's seat, like had done only two days before, but after Francis helped Arthur stuff a surprising amount of possessions into Francis' vehicle, the two blonds both agreed that somebody with only one leg would be more comfortable sitting in the back with all of the stuff at his feet than somebody with both legs. So almost like a piece of baggage, Alistair had been thrown behind the two, where the bags of clothes, rations, dismantled chairs, and pair of crutches were sitting on two other seats and the ground. Sure, his lack of one leg gave him more room in his seat, but his one good leg was twisted on top of a sack of clothes. So like the ride before, Alistair sat, uncomfortable, not knowing what exactly was going on.

But unlike before, the time didn't pass by quietly. In fact, it was far from silent; the radio wasn't even on and Alistair didn't say a word at all. Yet, the car was filled with what Francis called a "conversation," what Arthur called "argument," and what Alistair called "absolute hell." And it indeed was "absolute hell."

"This is going to be _great_!" Francis sang, his blue eyes not quite intent on the road as they should have been. "Now I can drive you to BCWD—you don't need to walk to and from anymore. And then we can work together better, since we will see each other every day!"

"That's the _worst_ part!" Arthur was screeching. "I don't want to see you more than I have to!"

"Well, I would make it a rule that you'd have to pluck your eyebrows every day, but I'm such a great person by letting you stay without any conditions."

"You're a _terrible_ person!"

"That's because you're jealous that I have a heart of gold."

"Heart of gold? Black ink runs through your veins!"

"Mon chéri, it's not possible to have black ink as blood."

"Neither is a heart of gold!"

"I had meant that as a metaphor."

"I was too!"

"No, you weren't."

"Yes, I was! Now shut your mouth!"

"Now, somebody is moody today."

"I am _not_ moody!"

"Don't worry, mon chéri. My beautiful, French charm will make you feel better." Francis looked away from the road, winked, and used both of his hands to blow Arthur a kiss. Immediately, Arthur freaked.

"Keep your hands on the wheel!"

Arthur lunged. The car jerked to the left, and behind, Alistair blanched. The three men could see the path of the road disappear and turn into a wall of buildings. Luckily, Francis picked things up before damage could be done, brushing Arthur's hands off the steering wheel and taking back control.

"Arthur, what was that for?" Francis asked, eyes widening and glancing back and forth to check for any damages.

"Trying to _save_ us! You were the one who took your hands off the wheel!" Arthur shrank into his seat. "We could've gotten killed, you know!"

"We _wouldn't_ have gotten killed." Francis exhaled and pushed a lock of blond hair behind his ear. Evidently, he had calmed back down and deemed the situation all right. "With your stunt, we _would have_ then. You nearly ran us into a building. You're lucky that I saved us." His blue eyes peered towards Arthur, but continued to focus on what was ahead.

"No, I wouldn't have," Arthur denied. His arms were crossed over his chest, and Alistair knew that the silly blond knew that he had overreacted.

"Just trust my judgement on this one, mon chéri."

Then the rest of the ride continued like that, Arthur denying his mistake and Francis trying to get the younger Kirkland to trust that Francis knew what he was doing. Of course, neither side was doing well. The conversation became merely a drone through the car until Francis turned on the radio to a classical station to fill in the gaps that permeated between each exchange. That didn't last long though, for Francis pulled into a driveway before the first song finished playing.

The house was rather small and almost archaic looking, reaching only two stories high, and probably having a little basement in a desperate attempt to add more space. Unlike all the other buildings in Central, the architecture was made entirely out of bricks except for the roof, which was made of tin folded up to let rain drain out. The method of construction was one of the past, when advanced designs weren't around to allow homes to last through the centuries. Cracks and holes littered the sides of the walls where erosion and weeds gnawed away the man-made home. And in the light of the disappearing sun, the walls appeared dark and deteriorating. Despite its less durable and comfortable appearance, it occupied a hefty amount of land. A lawn was big enough to have five rows of dirt mounds where flowers could have been grown. Francis must have paid a lot in order to own that much in the tiny island of the World Domain, but he appeared entirely satisfied about his home.

Arthur didn't say a word as he got out of the car. He wasn't pleased with how the home appeared to be something from a museum; however, he couldn't complain about Francis' choice of home. So he simply moved around the motor vehicle to help his brother out of the car. But by then, the older Kirkland not only had slipped himself under the door and retrieved his crutches, but also was leaning into the car to drag out some of the lighter bags.

"What? You think I'm a weak invalid?" Alistair snapped, tucking the walking aids underneath his arms and hooking the baggage handles onto the crutch handles. "I can still carry my own."

In response, Arthur rolled his eyes. "Of course." Then, shoving his brother to the side, he reached into the car to gather the rest of the items stuck in between and on the seats.

Francis joined them outside afterwards, a smile crossing over his face as he gestured to the front door with his thumb. "The door's unlocked," he told the Kirkland brothers. And then he moved to the back to open up the trunk and plug in a wire into an outlet on the edge of driveway.

Then they began to move everything. Luckily, there wasn't much in the first place. In fact, it appeared like the Kirkland brothers were a pair of extravagant vacationers rather than two people moving into a new home. The financial tightness left little to no room for anything other than the bare necessities, and the furniture was sold off to rack in some extra money. So in reality, they lugged around only clothes, blankets, toiletries, two laptops, leftover food, and tiny, personal trinkets into the home.

The interior of the house was much nicer than the exterior. The walls and ceiling were of a white plaster covered with simple, swirling designs, and the floor was wood with a veneer of wax to give the orange-red a light sheen. The small area made integrating Kirkland possessions with Francis' much easier, as they didn't need to wander through many rooms. In fact, the first floor only consisted of a kitchen, a dining room, and a bathroom. And because of the small space, Francis had only the simplest décor, despite his extravagant tendencies, for the dining room only had small television and table with chairs, and the kitchen was left clean with only cooking utensils and ingredients as the only "embellishments." The only things that stuck out with the home were the dog bowl and chew toys, which Alistair tripped over two times, but there was no dog in sight. When Arthur asked about them, Francis shrugged and told them that he had been planning of getting a dog, but he had changed his mind. In the end, Arthur and Alistair were quite happy with the home, although it was rather eccentric despite its friendly ambience.

After about half an hour or so, Arthur tossed the final bag on wooden floor at the front door and then bent down to remove his shoes, like a proper gentleman. Alistair was standing beside him and when he realised that he was hopping dirt all over clean, shining floorboards, he fell onto his butt and pulled off his one shoe. Only Francis chuckled at that, and Arthur, instead of Alistair, glared up.

"All right, I'll just move everything up to your room, and you two can unpack later," Francis said with a kind smile. He offered Alistair some help up, but the redhead swatted the hand away and pushed himself off the floor. "Put your leftover food in the refrigerator over there, and I can use it to make breakfast for tomorrow. But by all means, microwave the stuff if you're hungry. I'll be in the shower if any of you need me."

"Right. Thanks, Bonnefoy," Arthur said. He took his shoes and Alistair's one and pushed them to the side so they lined up against wall. Francis had carelessly kicked off his own and they were in two different places, but Arthur made no move to put them together with the other three. "Where would the bedrooms be?"

The elder blond pointed up the carpeted stairway on the left. From where the three stood, they could see a bit of a hallway that went right and a door left slightly ajar revealing a sliver of the bathroom. "Up there. First one on the right. That's the guests' room, so you can do whatever you want there."

Then there was silence. Arthur and Francis stared at each other, both of their expressions slowly turning confused as if they were waiting for the other to say something.

"And…?" Arthur finally said.

"And what?"

"The other bedroom?"

Francis' blond eyebrows inched together, one on the right slowly approaching his hairline. "Other bedroom? What do you mean by that? You two will be in the same room. It's big enough for both of you."

The edges of Arthur's mouth turned downwards. "I'm not sleeping with my brother."

"Nobody says that you'll be sleeping with him." Francis picked up some of the baggage. "I have two beds there, separated by a nightstand."

Arthur's scowl deepened and he folded his arms over his chest. "No. I meant that I wasn't going to be sleeping in the same room as he is."

"Oh, I get it." Francis nodded as the smile returned on his face. "If one of you wants, you can come over to my room. My bed is big enough for two." He winked.

Arthur's face turned a dark red and his teeth grinded against each other. He was livid—appalled by such a suggestion. "Not like that, stupid _pervert._ Don't you have any other bedrooms?" Alistair knew his brother well enough that Arthur would demand sleeping on the couch if there were indeed no rooms left. Of course, sleeping on couches everyday wouldn't be the best of ideas, but Arthur's pride normally got the best of him anyway.

Francis sucked a deep breath through his nose. Then he paused before exhaling through his mouth. "I do. It's my… my wife's old room." His blue eyes turned upwards for a moment before returning to hold Arthur's gaze. "One of you can go sleep there until she comes back. Just don't move anything in there, please."

The younger blond pulled back and chewed his lip. His green eyes shot towards his brother, who leant against the wall with both crutches tucked on one side. There was another moment of silence.

This time Alistair cut it off, grumbling, "I'll take that."

Both blond men looked at the redhead with mild surprise. Then, catching on, Francis pointed back up the stairway again. "All right. It's all the way on the end to the left, but not at the very end. The one there is mine."

Alistair nodded and peeled himself away from the wall, tucking his crutches under his arms. "Thanks." Then he turned and started up the stairs.

"Wait, where are you going?" Francis called.

"To sleep."

"Really? Are you that tired?"

"Exhausted."

"How about your bags? Should I bring those up?"

"I'll get them tomorrow."

Alistair continued up the stairs, not sparing anybody another glance even when he managed to get to the top. He could almost hear Francis and Arthur glance at each other and shrug. The two blonds talked about the boarding arrangements, but Alistair didn't listen to anything. As long as they left him alone, he was happy with whatever came his way. Without another thought, he hobbled down the hallway and turned into the door on the far left. Then he turned the doorknob and entered.

For some odd reason, the room seemed familiar, but Alistair didn't know how. The place looked like something from a monastery. Only a bed, a desk, a lampstand and a bookshelf stood as the décor. The walls were painted a tinted pink that almost looked blank if it weren't for the white ceiling and the brown flooring. The only source of lighting would have been from the large window on the far wall beside the bookcase, and the single lamp on the desk beside the bed. Nevertheless, there was light ambience permeating through—maybe it had been from the bright colours and the wooden furniture. Or maybe it was the light but strange scent of flowers.

But when Alistair closed the door behind him, he suddenly realised how lonely the room seemed. Dust covered the floor just beyond the entrance and then disappeared to reveal the glossy wood flooring. The bed was perfectly made: sheets were tucked under the mattress and appeared as if they were ironed there. An empty glass was beside the lamp. A waterline ran through the middle of the cup; whatever had been there must have evaporated long ago. A book was left open on the desk, as if it were petrified there. Carefully, Alistair hobbled over and closed it. A pen was holding a page somewhere else, so he pulled that out as well. It was a Holy Bible. Actually, it was an awfully strange Bible; notes were written all over the margins and post-its marked a few pages, but Alistair didn't bother to read any of that. He found it strange that somebody would write over such a sacred book, but it wasn't like he knew any better. The spine was creased, and the book appeared almost permanently open for the soft cover curled upwards. Deciding to fix this, Alistair picked the tome up and went towards the bookshelf. Unfortunately, there weren't many books lining the shelves, and vases of wilting lilies and framed pictures seemed to dominate the "library."

As Alistair slipped the Bible between two hardcover books titled _Les Misérables _and _Inferno_, something caught his eye. It was a marriage photo: Francis was standing on the right with a pure white tuxedo on; his wife stood on the right. The two appeared absolutely ecstatic. Francis was winking at the camera and blowing a kiss, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of his bride, who in turn cuddled next to him with mouth open with laughter. Both of their wedding bands could be seen on their fingers: Francis' on the hand held out towards the camera, and the bride's on the hand squished between the groom and her.

The woman was absolutely stunning. Her cut hair, cut even shorter than Francis', appeared to reflect the light of the sun, and she had the biggest, blue eyes that brimmed with utter happiness and optimism. Her teeth peeking under her lips were a bit crooked and small in her mouth, but they seemed to add a certain rustic charm to her smile tracing over her round face. And her dress seemed to only accentuate those qualities, being of a simple, silky material that tumbled down her body in light waves. The veil, which fell to her feet, flowed with her hair, keeping the feminine appearance over her boyish hairstyle. She did not appear to be wearing any earrings, but it seemed like they were unneeded. Instead, the only piece of jewellery she had on her was a simple cross necklace made of shining steel and a handful little, red beads.

Suddenly, a dark feeling fell into the pit of Alistair's stomach. It wormed, thrashed and screamed. He felt sick, but he didn't want to put the picture away, still staring at it with a heavy, guilty gaze. He didn't know how long he was standing there, but when he heard footsteps crossing past the door, he finally placed the photograph upside-down, its stand resting flat against the covering of the back. There was no more need to look at such grotesque memories, and Alistair knew enough already.

So placing his crutches against the wall beside the bed, he crawled under the covers. Silently, Alistair apologised and tucked himself into bed. Then he fell asleep.

But Alistair could still smell the flowers—musty and filled with honey and dirt. It reminded him of many things. Like gunpowder and explosions. Dust flying all over the place with fire bursting from the ground. Oil seeping through metallic parts and legs. Sparks and smoke flying off of weapons and people. And blood. Flowers smelt like blood; lilies like tears. And somebody clinging to his shoulders and crying words of heavy confessions. And screams in agony and despair. And orders shouted by officers. No, those were sounds, like the deafening silence that came with popped eardrums. Or like when two people, a man and then a woman, told him, "Fire." Wait, had it been like when two people told him to fire? Or had it just been one person—a woman with a tinkling voice? Yes, flowers smelt like a tinkling voice telling him, "Fire," and like the heaviness as he suddenly realised that when he had thought he killed two people, he had actually killed three.

What a terrible smell.


	17. Law 7, Part 1

**Yo, Hikou no Kokoro back with a new chapter! I'm pretty happy that this li'l guy was finished in time. I swore that I wouldn't make it; I had only gotten half of it done over the week, but then today-bang! Got the rest done in about an hour and a half! Hopefully that's not a bad thing. And hopefully, I can make it in time for next week's Friday for the next chapter. I want to try to keep my updating as consistent as possible. But anyway, I'm finally going to be pleasing my little USUK (or UKUS) readers out there. It's you guys' turn to see some development, right?**

**Special thanks for all my reviewers: firelight3, Crazy Green Earphones, and Rufescent! You guys are the reason why I keep writing this!**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It rightfully belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I only own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth."  
—Chinese proverb

"Law 7: Making Miracles, Part 1"

Months passed since Arthur and Alistair had moved into Francis' home. The time rolled by relatively smoothly, and no serious problems arose. Of course, that didn't mean that there were no arguments, because there were. They were simply too petty to last long or make a significant impact on anything at all. For example, Arthur and Francis had fought over what mode of transportation they would take to get to BCWD: Arthur had wanted to take advantage of Francis' beautiful car, but Francis was unreasonably stubborn in wasting time walking to BCWD. Eventually, Francis won out, as it was Arthur's habit of waking up early and strolling right out the door anyway, so they only used the car on emergencies, during rainy days, on errands, and with Alistair on board. There was another time when the two fought over cooking. At first, Francis thought it was a brilliant idea for the three to rotate cooking duty, assuming that because Arthur worked in a restaurant Arthur knew how to cook at least a decent meal. That changed immediately. Arthur somehow burnt beef stew: fire spewed from the pot and Francis clambered through the house with three fire extinguishers in hand; in the end, even the unburned remains tasted strangely like alcohol and tea leaves. After that, Francis and Alistair kept Arthur as far away from the kitchen as possible, much to Arthur's chagrin. Although these sorts of arguments were common in the shared household, they lived together quite well, sharing the bills, taxes, expenses and chores (except kitchen duty of course—Francis decided to completely monopolise the kitchen after figuring out how destructive Arthur was, and how boring Alistair's grand total of two recipes, haggis and porridge, were).

But Arthur's and Francis' more domestic lives weren't the only things that went relatively smoothly. Professionally, the two got along pretty well. They might have disagreed after the times when Arthur's frustration blew up his temper and Francis' detours wasted time, but observers would have nodded and said that they were indeed good partners. Francis taught procedures and tricks, and Arthur picked them up almost immediately. In a matter of three weeks, Arthur almost seemed like an assistant rather than a student; he would take care of assignments he was proficient in, allowing Francis to take care of the more confidential and complicated subjects. Mostly, however, they did experiments on rodents, specifically focusing on cellular communication and preliminary testing for pharmaceuticals—standard examples of early twenty-first century experiments. Only twice was Arthur allowed to dabble in some bioengineering: NL-27239 and NA-65710C. Those two experimentations deteriorated after a week, unfortunately. Then the two did go around helping a few doctors—usually Roderick—with their experimentations, but Arthur rarely met human subjects other than Alfred and Matthew, whom he gave physicals to, and even if he were allowed to help with another patient, Francis would only allow Arthur to give physicals and administer pills and injections filled with undisclosed substances. The monotony of the assignments annoyed Arthur, but at last he felt like he was doing something rather than running around campus and meeting people whose names he would never bother to remember.

Francis also sent Arthur into other jobs outside the department. Twice, Arthur went along with Francis to learn standard anaesthesia as talented surgeon made hip replacements. Of course, Arthur appreciated the new knowledge and skill, but it really wasn't something he knew he was going to do every day; after realising that the Humane Control department specialised in sedation _and_ euthanasia, he was hesitant to learn more. He did end up babysitting İhsan, Heracles and Gupta several times. He never knew why though, since they were so well-behaved that they could easily take care of themselves, except when they were hungry. Nevertheless, Sadık was grateful for Arthur's work, so Arthur didn't mind as much.

Regardless of how much Arthur got to do, he couldn't help but feel that Francis continued to_ censor_ material. Francis was saying the word _confidential_ less often until he wasn't saying it at all. But he continued to pick and choose what questions to answer. He just didn't blatantly state that he wasn't anymore. Instead, Francis would skitter around the subject by making unrelated observations and statements. It was far more irritating that way. Arthur wanted answers, and he wanted them immediately. He didn't want to wait, go through some sort of process or detour in order to find everything out.

Then, suddenly, Francis took a day off. Ludwig had gotten requests from two doctors saying that they were going to be requiring Arthur's assistance as an extension to the Paid Internship Program. Then the request was filed to Gilbert, who waved it off and said that Francis didn't need to come to work for the day, since Arthur would be busy with other things. Francis complied; an order was an order. That came as a surprise, but Arthur wasn't the one to look at the teeth of a gift horse. He was going to take advantage of Francis' day off and get some answers.

That day, Arthur had fully intended to walk alone in the rain. He had woken up before Alistair, of course, for the redhead always slept in. But Francis hadn't gotten up. Normally, he and Arthur would get downstairs at around the same time—Francis liked to take long, hot showers in the morning, so technically he got up earlier, but Arthur could get ready faster—so the silence seemed strange, but it was sorely missed. So he made his own breakfast of toast and peanut butter (Francis finally trusted Arthur enough to remove the restraining order on the toaster and the kettle) and sauntered right into the rain.

But Francis called out to him, standing in the doorway, in his light blue pyjamas and with his arms crossed over the chest. He offered to drive Arthur to the campus, and Arthur immediately took up the offer. With the extra time after getting ready, Francis made crepes for breakfast, leaving some for Alistair and writing a small note, as he usually did. Then Francis and Arthur climbed into the car and went straight to BCWD. There was no time for any detours, so Francis decided to only take one "to be _fashionably_ late." Along the way, Francis gave last minute instructions and notes to Arthur, who, although was listening intently, wondered why Francis never told him before on the night before.

Francis had wanted Arthur to check up on Alfred and Matthew. Ludwig had requested general health reports on them if they were eating healthy or were cognitively fine, and Francis had thought that day would have been a great time to fulfil that wish. Of course, Francis had procrastinated on that, but Arthur came to expect these sorts of things. But in addition to the usual requests, such as making some of the red concoction for Matthew, Francis told him to inject something into Alfred. It was called IN-42, and it was supposedly a translucent green. But when Arthur asked what it did and why he was to inject it into Alfred, Francis shook his head and pressed firmly against the accelerator until they careened into BCWD. The only replies to his question that Arthur got were a _goodbye_ and a _take care._

Well, that was frustrating. But Arthur couldn't do anything about that as Francis drove back home. Besides, Arthur should have been used to this sort of behaviour. So with a shrug of the shoulders, Arthur entered BCWD and went straight to Ludwig's office.

Feliciano was the first to greet Arthur. Right when the door opened and Arthur stepped inside, the brown-haired man grinned and called, "_Ciao_, Arthur! What brings you here?"

"I'm here to talk to Beilschmidt about my today's schedule," Arthur replied as he approached Feliciano's desk. "I had gotten requests from Edelstein and Adnan to help them, and Bonnefoy told me to check on Alfred and Matthew as well. I'm wondering about what I should do."

"Oh, okay. Ludwig is busy right now, but I can handle this. I promise!" Feliciano hummed and turned to his computer, typing a few things. "I'm sure that Roderick and Sadık will explain what exactly you're going to do, but we have to manage our time, right? Right?" he said as he furiously typed. Then he hit enter. He looked up at Arthur, almost as if he was expecting something, but Arthur said nothing. It wasn't until a few moments later when two jingling sounds came from the computer that Feliciano's face brightened up considerably. He seemed to almost dive for the mouse to scroll across the screen's messages. "Okay, so Roderick and Sadık agreed that they'll take turns. So first, you can go do Francis' assignments, and Roderick will meet you at room 29 at noon so you can help him with that. Then you will be at room 60, where Sadık will take you to his assignment at three." Then the little man looked from the blue, glowing screen. "You got all that?"

Arthur nodded. "Of course I do. Thank you very much." Then he turned to leave.

"No problem," Feliciano said with his hand raised before Arthur had slipped through the door and closed it.

Then the BCWD intern walked down the hallways, already having memorised most of the paths after walking down them with Francis and being led around on "tours." For once, he could have been grateful for Francis' little detour habit, but he wouldn't admit that. In fact, Arthur would state that he knew his way because of all the places he had to go in order to fulfil assignments. That tied with Francis too, but again, he wouldn't admit that. So it wasn't long until Arthur had reached room 29 and slid his ID card to enter. The room was where Alfred and Matthew boarded, so he wouldn't be surprised if some chaos had passed through and the beds and items were tossed about. He had worked in BCWD long enough; he could predict obvious patient behaviour decently enough.

But that wasn't the case that time. When Arthur stepped into the room, only Alfred was there, sitting on his bed and kicking his legs so his slippers were barely hanging onto his toes. Nothing seemed remotely out of place; the ambiance seemed to be crisp as the rest of the building. As the door slid open, Alfred looked up over the glasses frames.

The first thing Alfred said was, "Where's Francis?"

Arthur walked towards Alfred and the door closed behind him. "He has the day off."

"So no candy?"

The intern shook his head. "No."

"Aw…" Alfred's blue eyes looked on the ground before he turned his head to face in front of him.

Arthur suddenly felt awkward. Alfred normally wasn't this quiet when he and Francis were around. In fact, when they were, Alfred would jabber on and on. He would never stop talking. And when Arthur would wait for Matthew to say something, Alfred would speak for the quiet boy. A few times, Arthur tried to force words out of Matthew's mouth, but Alfred would always butt in and bring the limelight back towards him.

"Where is Matthew?" Arthur asked, tossing away the feeling of clumsy interactions. He shouldn't care for how Alfred acted. He had a job to do: check Alfred's eating habits, analyse his cognitive abilities, and inject the IN-42 into his vein.

Alfred looked back up at Arthur again. "He's not here. Sadık took him away."

Arthur stopped in his tracks and looked back at Alfred. His breath caught in his throat. Alfred looked up at him with such painful, blue eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty. They were nothing like when Arthur would be with Francis. Then Arthur remembered why. Sadık was the "Headhunter," and for a good reason. He practiced euthanasia. Arthur's heart clenched at the thought. Was Sadık going to euthanize Matthew? Was Matthew going to disappear by a premature death? Or was the boy's fate not what Arthur presumed? Uncertainty began to plague Arthur's mind, its suffocating hold tightening until a feeling of guilt and dread mingled in. Could he do anything to help this situation?

"Oh," was the only thing Arthur ended up saying. Alfred continued to stare up at him. He couldn't take it anymore, the older blond turned to break the eye contact. He still had a job to do, and he was going to finish it, as what was expected from him. He couldn't let other things get in the way; after all, this was all for scientific research. A good researcher or doctor must not allow personal views and feelings to get in the way.

So Arthur walked across the room to the counters and cabinets. Alfred was watching the whole thing, but not a word was exchanged. For once, Arthur felt that the silence was suffocating. It was heavy, and the pair of blue eyes that stared at his moving figure seemed obtrusive, as if they belonged to a scrutinising observer or evaluator. Then Arthur slid his card through the cabinets; they worked similarly like the door except no keyboard slid out. When he could pop the doors open, he took out a small device. It was a small, circular thing, shaped with a thin handle and a large saucer that blinked blue and green. Arthur was quite familiar with it; Francis liked to overuse the basic technologies, so naturally Arthur had followed closely behind.

"All right, I'm going to be checking your dietary habits," Arthur announced, pulling a few pieces out to make sure everything was fine before pushing them back in. He really didn't need to tell Alfred what he was doing, especially since Alfred was familiar with routine check-ups, but Arthur made it a habit to do so. It was "more polite," as he would say.

Alfred nodded, eyeing the little device and sticking his tongue out as he would normally do whenever he saw a doctor or nurse pull the device out. Arthur approached the younger blond as he flipped a switch. A slab of clear plastic snapped out. Then Arthur pressed the plastic against Alfred's tongue. Immediately, neon green glowed along the plastic. The device made a series of beeps and whirring as colours swirled along the saucer. Then there was a loud click. The colours immediately disappeared, replaced by faint letters blinking, "Loading Results…" That too disappeared and a long column of blue dots accompanied by descriptions flashed across the surface, scrolling downwards in a speed that Arthur didn't bother to read. Every now and again, an orange dot would be in place of a blue dot. Those immediately were separated from the blue dots, sliding to the side so he could analyse it. Only a few minutes passed before a chime marked the end of the data record. The automatic processes had ended, allowing the intern to read what was important: the days when Alfred didn't eat properly. There were only five instances in total, a very good sign after an analysis of two months. And each occasion showed a trend of an abnormal amount of protein and fat, and a deficiency of vitamins. The cause was obvious: Alfred must have snuck into the cafeteria to eat more hamburgers and must have pushed aside his vitamin pills, as he tended to do if no instruction was looming over his head. So Arthur silently noted that he could tell Francis that Alfred was, generally, eating correctly; after all, these sorts of basic devices had a long-lasting trend of always being accurate. Arthur smiled; he was always amazed how well the inventions in BCWD worked. No matter how many times he saw the technology or used it, it would never cease to amaze him.

"Okay, thanks, Alfred," the intern said, walking back to the counter and pulling out the plastic disk from the device. Francis had told him that they didn't need to sanitise the device or reconfigure it with new disks because the devices were specific for Alfred and Matthew—in fact, some superiors had ordered them to save the plastic if they could so then there would be less energy wasted—but Arthur wanted to be safe and replace the disposable parts per use.

"Are you here for anything else?" Alfred asked, blue eyes' gaze following Arthur. "How long are you going to stay?"

"For as long as I need to." Arthur tossed out the plastic disk and took out a new one from one of the cabinets. Then he ripped the bag open and carefully slipped the new part into the device. Immediately, green swirls flashed over the surface to reconfigure around the new probe.

"How long will that be?"

"When I finish one more thing."

Alfred's thin eyebrows inched together. He appeared to be pleading as he looked up. "And how long will that take?"

"Not long." There was a click. The device was ready for the next use, so Arthur flipped the off switch to store the thing back to its place.

"Then… How long can you stay?"

"Until noon. I have something else to do then."

"Then can you stay until then?"

Arthur sighed, opening his mouth as he turned. But when he looked back at Alfred, making eye contact, he didn't turn away. He couldn't. Then he closed his mouth and paused. It was only a split moment of silence until Arthur replied, "All right. I will."

A grin split over Alfred's face. His blue eyes widened, sparkling in the artificial light. "Really? Awesome! Thanks, dude!"

Arthur smiled then. He didn't know what had possessed him, but he let out a light sigh. "Of course."

"So what're you going to do?" Alfred leant forward a bit, watching Arthur intently as if he were in a theatre. "Do you think Francis hid candy in there? I can never open that 'cause I don't have a card, you know? I tried to pry it open and everything, but I ended up getting the alarm set out on me. That was hilarious."

Arthur raised one big, bushy eyebrow, giving Alfred a confused glance as he rifled through the things. "Of course you can't go through here. Workers only; no patients." He found a box of clean syringes on the top shelf, so he set one sterilised package on the counter.

"Aw, that sucks." Alfred pouted. "I bet Frannie purposefully sticks pieces of chocolate in there since we can't open it." He eyed the syringe, tilting his head to the side.

"I doubt it." What Arthur was looking for wasn't in that cabinet, so he opened another one. Immediately, lines of flasks and capped tubes lined the shelves, showing of various colours in the light. But Arthur didn't marvel at any of that; he didn't know what they did, after all, and simply because things looked pretty didn't mean that he would look at them with awe. So Arthur scanned through the labels, recognising a handful but not understanding any of them except for a small bottle labelled, "Serotonin."

"Really? Would you check? Pretty please?"

Arthur sighed and shook his head. He didn't like Alfred's little antics when it came to sugar. Francis too often spoiled the child, but it wasn't like Arthur could force Francis to stop. So, he remained silent as he searched for IN-42. Eventually, he did. It was in a small test-tube on a clear stand with two others of its kind. The liquid was a strange translucent blue. Arthur couldn't understand how the injection could be such an alien colour, but then again, he didn't know what it was for or what it was made of, so he dropped his questions. Maybe they would be answered later. So he took one.

Alfred screamed.

Arthur jumped, the container almost slipping out of his fingers. Immediately his wide, green eyes turned towards Alfred. The boy had clambered onto his bed, blankets messed up under his feet, back pressed against the wall. The plush slippers were no longer on his feet. Instead, they had been kicked off, one of them under Matthew's bed and another near the door. And Alfred was shaking. He was shaking so much, eyes wide and tears welling up in the corners.

The intern held the bottle in his palm. "W-what's wrong, Alfred?"

Alfred cried, "Please don't do this to me, Artie! Please!"

Arthur's heart clenched. His mind immediately went back to the time when he first met Alfred and Matthew. He at first didn't suspect anything until Matthew reached out and said the last thing Arthur thought he would hear. "Please save us," the boy had said with words so heavy that they must have had their own gravitational pull.

"What's wrong?" Arthur repeated, taking one step towards Alfred.

The boy let out a horrified whimper and curled into himself. His palms covered his eyes. The thin, little shoulders trembled. "Please don't do this, Artie. I thought you cared."

Arthur hesitated, eyebrows inching together and his mouth hanging ajar. He didn't understand what had possessed Alfred to suddenly act like that. He glanced at the blue liquid and slowly set it down. "I do care, Alfred. So what's wrong?"

Alfred sniffled, but he didn't dare look at the intern. "I don't want that shot." His loud voice seemed strangled. It was similar to how Matthew talked. "It always hurts, and then after, everything hurts and I always have to go to the bathroom and I throw up a lot and I can't eat anything and I can't go to sleep and—" The patient cut himself off, hiccupping.

The older blond sucked in a sharp breath and looked at the liquid again. So that was what the injection did. Of course, Arthur still didn't know what exactly it was, but the repercussions sounded terrible. They were similar to symptoms of an illness rather than side-effects of medication. That was terrible; Arthur wondered how anybody would do something like that to a child. But he still didn't know what the injection was for. There was a possibility that it was a vaccine to combat something, and the symptoms Alfred had named were the product of the struggle between health and virus. Additionally, Francis had ordered it; an order was an order. Arthur really shouldn't disobey what his superiors, especially his mentor, said.

Arthur put the bottle away anyway. The glass tube slipped right back into the stand, as if it had never left in the first place. Then Arthur put away the unopened syringe away as well. Finally, he closed the cabinets back up. Alfred's whimpers could still be heard over the whirling of the cabinets' locks.

Finally silence pervaded through the room. However, it wasn't the same silence as before. Alfred was still crying. It just felt like silence. Nobody moved for a long time.

But Arthur eventually did. He climbed onto Alfred's bed and sat beside the boy. The patient didn't seem to notice, so Arthur continued, wrapping around Alfred's trembling shoulders and bringing the boy close. The smell of antibiotics and pungent medication wafted into his nose.

"Don't worry, Alfred. Don't worry. I won't ever hurt you."


	18. Law 7, Part 2

**And I _finally_ finished this chapter. I had never thought that the beginning would be so hard to write. And I didn't think that this chapter would be this long either (5k+ words-Wow!), and I even had to cut it short by a few paragraphs. Nevertheless, I finished, despite all my other work. Woot! I hope I'll be more timely the next chapter.**

**Now, before I go into the chapter... I finally got a tumblr! Yay! :D I'll be posting updates on my progress, betas and previews to the next chapter, so if you're not willing to watch everything else I do, you can just watch for some sneak peeks for upcoming chapters.**

**Now onto my thanks:**

**Thanks to ForestFireSong, Crazy Green Earphones, Rufescent, firelight3, and Fei for your awesome reviews! You guys are what keeps me going!**

**Oh, and speaking of reviews, here's a message to Fei, since I can't reply to an anonymous review: Don't worry. I've never been planning to add anything racy in this story. Those sorts of content won't fit in here. Yes, some characters will be developing closer than others, but have no fear: no lemony content will appear. After all, this thing is rated T for a reason!**

**Well, now I got my incoherent, jumpy A/N out of the way, I hope you enjoy this new chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I only own the AU plot.**

* * *

To Create Perfection

"To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring."  
—George Santayana

"Law 7: Making Miracles, Part 2"

Arthur and Alfred stayed together for a while. Only quiet sniffles pervaded between them until they stopped entirely, so there was only silence. Neither of them moved. And it was comfortable. There was no need to speak or exchange any words. Alfred even began to fall asleep, his eyes starting to slip closed because of the tranquillity. That was until Arthur glanced up at the clock in the room and saw that it was only minutes before noon. Then the intern slowly pulled away from Alfred, who looked up with his bright, blue eyes. Then the boy too looked up at the clock. He understood what was going on, so he let go of Arthur so the intern may leave to attend to other business. But that didn't mean that neither of them missed the hug. They just had things to do other than sitting around and hugging each other.

As Arthur silently went to the door, Alfred smiled and whispered, "Thank you."

Arthur heard the words, so he turned back, smiled and nodded. The door before him detected his movements, sliding open. Then he slipped right through exit so then it might close behind him.

"You're quite timely."

Arthur jumped, snapping out of his small reverie. "Thank you, Edelstein. I pride myself in my punctuality."

Roderick smiled, approaching Arthur from around the corner. A tablet was tucked underneath his arm, flashing a few messages across the deep purple screen. "I'm glad that Francis didn't give you his habit of dallying."

The intern scoffed. "I'm not as foolish as he is."

Roderick chuckled and shook his head slowly. "Let's see about that." Instead of stopping beside Arthur, Roderick continued to walk, so Arthur had to troth after the man. "So today we're going to check on Antonio—I believe that you've already met him through Francis?"

The blond nodded.

"Good." Roderick pulled the tablet from his arm and began to tap through some messages. The little boxes flashed away, leaving a plain, gridded screen. A few notes lined the boxes on the left side, but Arthur couldn't read any of them. "We're going to be checking on him. I want you to be my scribe during the examination. You are to record every word and action exchanged during the procedure."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. The scribe job didn't seem hard; it in no way was taking advantage of his ability. But he wouldn't complain. This assignment was a part of his Paid Internship program, and Ludwig did warn him that some of the assignments weren't going to help him other than to give him pay. Besides, Roderick was an extraordinarily efficient man. Arthur wouldn't have minded working under the man's instruction if Roderick was an assimilation officer. Roderick was willing to teach much faster than Francis would ever dream of.

"So are you faster at writing or typing?" Roderick asked.

"Typing."

"All right."

Slim fingers began to skitter across the tablet. The screen blinked from purple to white to grey. Then Roderick dug through his lab coat pocket and pulled a cylinder object. It was of a rough stainless steel with protruding bolt screwed into each end. A long slit went down the length where a slip of paper peeked out. With one hand fiddling the switch on the side of the tablet, Roderick used his free one to pop out two legs on each end of the cylinder. Suddenly, the back of the tablet flashed a light blue. A click followed, and an indent with four hooks appeared. At first, Arthur didn't know how any of that could be a part of such a slim slab of technology and he had no idea what all of that was for until Roderick snapped the cylinder into place. Lines of glowing light immediately coursed through the tablet. Then whirling sounded, starting off slow and speeding up. Finally, a long sheet of paper curled out with words and notes adorning over its white surface. Arthur's eyes went wide as he watched.

But this was a normal occurrence for Roderick. Without acknowledging of Arthur's strange awe, the dark-haired man ripped the paper from the cylinder, clicked the object off the tablet, pocketed it, and then handed Arthur the tablet. All of that was done without a blink—no hesitation for the actions was made by trained hands. On the other hand, Arthur was still giving a strange look and was almost hesitant to take the tablet from Roderick. Finally, Arthur did.

"Woah, do they all do that?" Arthur asked as if the demonstration was one of the best things he had ever seen.

Roderick raised an eyebrow, folding up the long paper before pocketing it. "Of course they do. Francis just never takes advantage of it. He's much too 'afraid' of the tablet to ever use it."

The blond frowned and flipped the technology back and forth, feeling the back and the sides for any evidence of protrusions and indentations. But nothing was there, not even a crack or a line. There was no evidence of anything that could have a printing ability. Then Arthur looked back at Roderick, his large, dark eyebrows inching together and arching upwards.

"Don't look like you didn't expect something like this," Roderick grunted. Then he used his hands to turn Arthur back around and to direct themselves down the hallways and stairway.

Instead of looking up to see where he was going, Arthur continued to tinker with the tablet, flipping it back and forth and tapping anything interesting that caught his eye. He had never used such a thing before except that one time when he was sending a request for Francis. Everything seemed strange with its colour-coded buttons and messages. It was disorientating after a while, and Arthur didn't want to sit dumbly before Roderick could commence the examination. Consequently, Roderick rolled his eyes, snatched the tablet, pulled a formatted document up, and then gave the tablet back. Arthur blushed, glancing at Roderick before going to back to the tablet.

A scribing program had popped up: a keyboard took up half of the area, and a row of commonly used symbols, such as the square brackets, lined the top with a small area for autocompleting or autocorrecting shorthand. Although its simplistic and bland nature, the program was awfully sophisticated, having an autocompleting and autocorrecting system that recognised context and therefore had an accuracy of nearly 90%, and even a small gesture pad for describing subject movement and activating a camera setting. Arthur clicked that on. The screen turned from showing a blank sheet of paper to the hallway in front of him. The intern pulled back, blinking, and then moved the tablet up and down. The image moved as well, blurring until Arthur stopped and shut the camera function off.

As Arthur and Roderick approached room 60, Arthur turned to the older man and asked, "Why do you need a scribe when you have a camera? Wouldn't it be a lot more efficient just to record everything?"

Roderick glanced over to the intern again. "Confidentiality," he said as he pulled his ID card out of his pocket. "Preference. Accuracy. Consistency." They had arrived at room 60 at that point, and Roderick was starting to open the door. "Besides, written documents are easier to store and organise in a database. I want to be able to physically pull out excerpts without having to re-edit anything."

"Oh. Thank you for the information, Edelstein."

"You're welcome." A long, pale finger hovered over the keypad from the door. "Do you have any other questions before we pick up Antonio?"

Arthur shook his head. "No."

"Very well."

Roderick hit enter. The door slid open, revealing the residents of room 60. At first, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The room was organised correctly; nothing was left on the counters and only furniture such as the bed was left for the patients' usage. And both patients seemed fine. Antonio was tucked into bed, back facing the entrance and thick blankets wrapping around his body so he almost looked like macaroni. Lovino sat on the edge of the bed, his own back pressed up against Antonio's. His legs were crossed and a thick, leather-bound book was open on his lap. Lovino was reading aloud, his tongue working clumsily over foreign words written on the page. And for a moment, Arthur stood and simply listened.

"'_Hijo mío —le dijo su padre—, tú siempre estás conmigo, y todo lo que tengo es tuyo. Pero teníamos que hacer fiesta y alegrarnos, porque este hermano tuyo estaba muerto, pero ahora ha vuelto a la vida; se había perdido, pero ya lo hemos encontrado.'_"

The patient paused, turning the page. Then he looked up; at first, his eyes were flat, staring up at Roderick until the gaze travelled to Arthur.

Lovino shot to his feet. The book slipped from his lap and snapped shut on the floor; the noise disturbed Antonio from his supposed slumber, and the dark-haired man jolted up to look with his bleary, green eyes. Lovino glared at Arthur. His hands curled into white, shaking fists. Then he snapped, through gritted teeth, "What the _hell_ are _you_ doing here, bastard?"

"I'm here to do my job," Arthur answered. The corners of his lips tugged downwards. He couldn't help himself from grinding his own teeth as well. "What do you mean 'what the hell' am I doing here?"

The shorter male pointed an offending finger at the intern. "Whenever that _French bastard_ is here, there's always something bad going on!" The hand turned into a fist, and the angry patient shook it threateningly at Arthur. "And since you're his _lackey_, that means that you're on the same level!"

Behind him, however, Antonio was reaching over the edge of the bed to retrieve the book, muttering something along the lines of, "Don't throw the Holy Bible on the floor, Lovi." Unfortunately, nobody except Roderick seemed to notice; the bespectacled doctor was watching Antonio, both his hands out of his pockets and one foot out before him.

Arthur was fuming. He would have thrown the tablet into the air if he didn't have any self-control. Instead, he shook his own fist at Lovino, narrowing his eyes to challenge Lovino's. "I'm not his _lackey_. In no way am I anything _like_ Bonnefoy!"

Lovino's tanned hands were thrown upwards in exasperation. "Of _course_ you're everything like that bastard! Your looks, your preferences, the way you talk—everything!"

Antonio struggled to get to the Bible. His torso was already off the bed and one leg stuck up into the air. The light blue blankets only covered one leg and most of the floor around the bed. His shirt was slipping off to reveal his gnarly ribs. A silver necklace had fallen from the folds of Antonio's scrubs, and the metallic chain pooled on the ground under his chin. The posture was rather comical if it weren't for the odd arch of his back straining the spine and the elbows of trembling arms skinning against waxed flooring. From a physician's standpoint, the posture was worrisome, and the drunken glaze coating over Antonio's green eyes was unnerving.

Before Arthur could retort, Roderick used a gentle hand to wave the intern to the side, taking a step forward. "Enough of this pettiness," Roderick ordered sternly. The angle of the lighting made a strange glare over his lenses. "We're here for Antonio."

"No. You can't have him," Lovino snapped, spreading his arms out and setting his eyes on Roderick rather than Arthur. The blond intern no longer interested him anymore. "He's going to stay here with me."

Roderick shook his head and sighed, approaching the two patients. One hand ran through his black hair. "I'm afraid that's not a valid request, IT-606. We only need Antonio for a few moments."

"No!" Lovino ran up and pushed the doctor away.

Arthur frowned. The display of outright irreverence was irking; Roderick was a high-level, competent doctor. People could push Francis around all they wanted, but Roderick was clearly a superior and earned the right to practice his authority. Quickly, Arthur walked up to Lovino and pulled the patient away from Roderick.

Lovino fought, kicking his leg as he stumbled out of the way. But then he was right back, planting a stern foot back in front of the BCWD workers. Behind him, Antonio had slipped off the bed and his stomach was pressed against the tiles. His feet were still up in the air and at least the Bible was again in his hand, but he looked at it as if he didn't know what he was going to do with it, tilting his head to the side and flipping through the pages without looking at any of the words. The man was completely oblivious to what was going on; it was unfortunate, for it was difficult to protect those who were ignorant of the situation. Nevertheless, Lovino continued, shouting, "No! You're going to hurt him."

"No, we aren't. We're just going to take him away for a moment."

"What do you take me for, a _fool_?" Lovino fumed, raising his two fists against Roderick and Arthur, despite the obvious disadvantages. His eyelids started to blink rapidly. "You're going to _kill_ him!"

Suddenly, Arthur took a step back. Nobody noticed, however.

One of Lovino's fists came down upon Roderick's shoulder, but the doctor stopped it before it made contact, pushing it aside. "What gives you _that_ idea?" the bespectacled man asked, moving forward until the two's chests were only mere centimetres apart. His height towered over Lovino, and his gaze was aimed downwards into the greenish-brown eyes. "As a doctor who has taken the WD Hippocratic Oath, I would never place a patient in a life-threatening situation."

"Lies!" Lovino's screeching voice cracked. "The Hippocratic Oath is the hypercritic oath! Antonio has a purple band!"

"That doesn't have anything to do with one another. I know that Antonio has a purple band, but that means nothing."

"_Bastard_!" Lovino grabbed Roderick by the collar and pulled the expression of apathy down to the level of his own. "I know everything _you_ know! Don't think I forgot everything just because I've been out of your hair for a few years!"

"I know that you know a lot of things, IT-606, but this is not your business."

"Purple means future _euthanasia_, dammit!"

Roderick and Arthur's breaths caught in their throats. But each was for a different reason. Roderick's was because of the amount of heavy truth Lovino spoke. It was something he preferred not to hear, for the words were weighty. Even after years and years, euthanasia remained dark and foreboding; it wasn't something people would do left and right to anybody—it never had, and it never would, permanent like the act itself. Arthur's was because Francis had hidden away the truth for so long. For months he had been wondering about this answer, ever since Arthur's accompanied examination on Antonio, and never did Francis respond. He only spoke "Confidential," and eventually, Arthur had given up, and then had forgotten it.

Arthur risked a glance at Roderick for a moment. _"Is that true?"_ he mouthed. Unfortunately, Roderick nodded in response; Arthur's eyes only widened further.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ give me those shocked looks," Lovino choked out. His fists dropped to his sides, but were immediately brought back up to rub around his eyes. "You should already know all of this, but then you think you can screw with me and feign innocence?" Something quiet rustled behind him. "I have been around here for years for a _reason,_ you know." Lovino sniffled. His shoulders lurched upwards before his hands dropped from his face, which had become a bright red that clashed with his skin colour. The shade appeared almost bruise-like, and his cheeks seemed to be inflamed.

Then, slowly, two darkened, thin arms wrapped around Lovino's torso. The boy hiccupped, arms tightening at his sides. Following, a head full of curly brown hair rested against the crook between Lovino's head and his thin shoulders. The man's chin nuzzled, and a tired smile playing over his visage. There was a silence until, finally, Antonio spoke.

"It's fine, Lovi. I'll be back later."

As quickly as he had gotten up, Antonio let go. He backed off, taking a few steps away from Lovino and towards Roderick while the smile on his face widened. Somehow, he seemed a bit different, almost purposeful. There was nothing holding him up except his own two feet—he was neither swaying nor leaning against railings or IV stands. His smile didn't seem loopy either, and it didn't droop to one side without a purpose. And then there were Antonio's eyes. The glaze from every other time was gone; once again, Arthur met the sharp gaze of the one who had threatened his life upon first encounter.

Roderick nodded. Without a single word, a hand stuck out to his side and led Antonio out the door. However, Arthur lingered behind, glancing over his shoulder at Lovino. The remaining patient heaved stuttering breaths; his hands were held stiffly at his side, clenched, and his head bowed down to the floor with his hunching shoulders. Arthur paused. His foot turned slightly back. Finally, the intern held the tablet up.

"Don't worry. It's only an interrogation," Arthur said.

"Interrogation my _ass_… I wish it is always _just_ an _interrogation_."

Lovino didn't move. Finally, Arthur sighed, turned, and followed Roderick out room 60. The door slid shut behind them, and the three turned right to walk down the hall towards Roderick's office.

Antonio tried to strike a conversation immediately. The man trotted beside Roderick, smiling and bopping his head as if he were listening to a rhythm to go along with him. Roderick had pulled out the stream of paper from his pocket to read by that point, but Antonio yammered anyway, peering over the doctor's shoulder.

"So what are we going to do today?" Antonio asked. He tilted his head to the side, green eyes directed on the words. He was a bit on his toes, but he eventually gave up for Roderick was walking much too quickly. It didn't seem like the doctor was paying much attention anyway, for he took out a pen and began to write shorthand.

"Nothing much, Antonio," Roderick replied softly, almost whispering. He looked up at Arthur for a moment. The two stared at each other; then Roderick jerked his head towards Antonio's direction. From there Arthur got the cue. He adjusted his grip on the tablet, beginning to type.

Roderick's movement brought Antonio's attention right to Arthur. So moving on from bothering Roderick, Antonio bounded over to bother Arthur instead, his arms bouncing as if he were doing some strange dance with the slight shrug of his shoulders. "_Hola,_" he greeted, sticking out a calloused hand. "My name's Antonio Carriedo. Nice to meet you!"

Arthur frowned a bit. After he took a moment to write down Antonio's actions, Arthur balanced the tablet upon his forearm and shook Antonio's hand. "Yes. I know who you are."

"Really?" Antonio chirped. Green eyes widened slightly. Then he laughed. "I must be _pretty_ famous then."

"Of course, you are." The tablet was slipping out of Arthur's hand, and it was awfully difficult typing things while walking and holding a conversation. He glanced towards Roderick. Maybe that was why Roderick was unresponsive to Antonio's questions. But Arthur couldn't copy that; it felt impolite. Roderick was excused though—the man, after all, probably had far more responsibilities than Arthur could ever dream of having at that time.

"So…" Antonio's mouth made a small _o_ as he extended the single syllable out. "Who're you?"

Arthur risked a glance at Antonio. One of his large, weasel eyebrows arched up, stretching. "I'm Arthur Kirkland. We've met before. Twice, in fact."

Antonio tilted his head. "Really? I don't remember ever meeting you before." He held his pointer fingers over his eyebrows. "I'd think I'd remember these things. Are those ferrets or something?"

Arthur scowled. Where had he heard that before? Oh, right, Francis had referred to the pair of "kissing weasels," as he had so lovingly dubbed them, when the two had first met. The short thought about Francis didn't, however, stop Arthur from noticing how Antonio seemed to have forgotten his existence entirely. In a way, Antonio never did meet Arthur because the man never _remembered_ meeting Arthur, despite having met each other in rather memorable conditions, such as when Antonio had so blatantly threatened Arthur's life because the blond had picked Lovino up by the collar. As odd as that seemed to Arthur, he dropped it, speaking out loud a plausible solution, "Well, it has been a few months since we've last seen each other. You might have forgotten."

A long, gnarly finger tapped Antonio's chin as his green eyes were directed towards the ceiling. "Maybe…" After a moment of silence, Antonio's smile returned. "Then you must be some sort of genius-smarty-pants! Being able to remember that long ago and stuff. That's so cool!"

Arthur only rolled his eyes in response. Antonio must have been exaggerating; the man did seem to hand out compliments often. Of course, Arthur never really heard Antonio praise anyone before, but maybe because of Antonio's wide, rather innocent grin Arthur had thought that. Arthur wasn't too far off though.

"All right, I will be cutting off this conversation here," Roderick finally said. Suddenly, in front of the other two males, he turned on his heels and headed the other direction towards a door they just passed. Of course, Arthur and Antonio followed, but they ceased their conversation by then as Roderick pulled out his ID card to open the office door.

In silence the three entered the room, and in silence they took their seats. Roderick didn't say anything; he merely took a seat on a leather chair behind the desk pushed close to the side of the office for a rather large grand piano took most of the space in the far right corner, angled so the shining, mahogany instrument took as much space as possible. Antonio seemed to know the procedure quite well, since once his foot entered the room, he dove for a little, red leather sofa leaning against the wall before Roderick's desk. The furniture had only one plush armrest with its even puffier backrest, so Antonio tucked himself in the little corner between the cushions, his back angled in the desk's direction yet Antonio could still see Roderick face-to-face without having to twist his torso. An outrageously bright purple pillow had been placed off the side as well, and Antonio picked that up to snuggle with. Arthur, being the only one who didn't quite know his place, hung around the entrance of the room until he spotted a wooden chair set in the corner directly to his right. The chair was turned a bit in the corner, facing towards Antonio and Roderick, so Arthur had figured that was where observers normally were. The corner was the furthest spot away from the patient and the doctor and seemed dimly lit while still providing adequate lighting: it was an easily forgotten area.

Glancing towards the two other men briefly, Arthur took the wooden seat, falling completely silent to just observe and type. He had always been irritated when Francis ordered him to step aside and observe. He never liked just observing; he wanted to do things. But this time was different. First of all, this was a part of his Paid Internship Program; Ludwig had told him earlier that some of the jobs wouldn't directly tie into his training, so then a job like this was to be expected. Second of all, Arthur was being _paid_ to learn. To complain would be the work of an ingrate. And finally, the most important point, this was Roderick. The doctor was different from Francis. This bespectacled man was efficient, straightforward, and far more capable than Francis could ever seem to be. And most of all, Roderick answered questions. That was far more than Francis ever did for Arthur.

The sound of crinkling paper and scratching nub of a pen permeated through the silence. It lasted only briefly before Roderick finally looked up at Antonio, adjusting his falling glasses, and started.

"How have you been feeling these days?"

"I'm doing great!" Antonio rocked back and forth in the chair, his blue scrubs scratching against the leather. "How have you been, Roderick?"

The doctor wrote one note. "I've been doing fine. Have you been sleeping well lately?" The tip of his nail clicked against his glasses lenses as he pushed them further up his nose.

"I've been taking a lot of _siestas_. I get a lot of nice dreams—I can't remember any of them, but I know they're always nice. Have _you_ been sleeping well?"

"Yes. I've been getting the proper eight to nine hours of sleep per night." Roderick jotted another note down.

Again, Roderick adjusted his glasses again. For a brief moment, Arthur wondered if he should note what Roderick was doing, but then he thought better of it. After all, Antonio was the subject, not the doctor. Roderick probably wanted Arthur to pick apart Antonio's actions and words, not Roderick's own. But maybe Roderick's actions were deliberate and would affect how Antonio acted; that would be essential for analyses too. But the question was, "Would it actually be necessary?" In the end, Arthur took out Roderick's words and actions. It was easier to only keep up with one person anyway. He didn't need more on his plate.

The doctor opened his mouth to speak again. But Antonio cut him off.

"So how has work been?"

Roderick bobbed his head a bit, his nose pointing at his desk. "It has been going well."

"That's good!" Antonio laughed. "How has Francis been doing?"

"Swell. He's been working hard."

"Of course he is! Just an hour ago, he came in to talk to Lovi and me. He said that his thesis paper will blow everybody away—even that prickly Wang with all his doubting mind." Antonio shifted in the chair. One foot was tucked between the cushions while that other one was under his thigh. "Hey, do you think he'll actually make it?"

Roderick pushed his glasses again. Then his hand travelled to one of his ears, fingering the end of his glasses. "Of course he will. There is no chance that he would fail."

"Yeah, I think so too." Antonio's grin widened. "I didn't say that because I doubted him either. After all, he has the bestest teacher teaching him." He paused for a moment. Roderick moved to speak again, but Antonio didn't seem to notice. Instead, Antonio continued, his grin falling a bit, "But… after all the work you did, do you really want to give it up and let Francis take your place? You told me that being an SEP assimilation officer gives you the most satisfaction, so do you really want to step down?"

"Yes."

Roderick's writing hand clenched tighter around his pen. His knuckles turned a powdery white—Arthur didn't know whether the movement was from Antonio not letting him speak or from Roderick possibly losing his favoured job or something completely different. This subject of conversation was quite strange, and Arthur was almost tempted to put the tablet away to simply watch what was going on. Of course, Arthur didn't. He was too busy being literal to interpret anything. But he couldn't help question this: why did it seem like Antonio thought Francis was not yet an SEP assimilation officer when Arthur knew that Francis had been one for three years?

From there, Roderick continued. "He is far more capable than I can ever be. He can achieve things with a precision and accuracy that I wish I had. And he has more factual and philosophical knowledge than he needs to be a better officer." The doctor sighed. "I know that the job will be in better hands."

"Yeah, but what about _you_? How do you feel about this?"

"Antonio, I'm giving up the job on my own decision. I have found somewhere else where I'm needed, and I look forward to working with that instead of interns." Roderick looked up at Antonio finally.

The patient paused for a moment. Then he asked, "But what about Elizaveta? How does she feel?"

Roderick fell silent. His eyes were aimed downwards once more.

Antonio stared, his green eyes blinking as he scrutinised the doctor. Arthur began to feel that this questioning had reversed from its intended direction. Roderick wasn't the doctor interrogating Antonio anymore; Antonio was the counsellor interrogating Roderick.

"Are you two still fighting?"

One finger twitched around the pen. Roderick's voice seemed to shake for a brief moment as he replied, "What do you mean by that?"

"You told me about it a week ago. You two had gotten angry with each other over something serious, and then you accidentally broke your family's vase."

"You remember that?"

"Of course I remember! I said that I'll help you with everything!" A soft smile broke across Antonio's face, and his head tilted towards Roderick. "I'd never forget anything you've told me."

Roderick slammed his pen against the table. The loud snap startled Antonio and Arthur, who both jumped in their seats with wide, green eyes. Then the doctor got out of his chair, gathering his papers.

"Kirkland, over here!" he barked.

Immediately, Arthur shot out of his seat and walked up to Roderick. "Yes? What is it?"

Roderick furiously folded up the papers and handed the intern only half of them. His eyes were still directed towards his feet, and his lips were set into a firm line "I'm no longer capable to interrogating Antonio. Please do it for me; I have other business to attend to."

Arthur stammered an affirmative. Then he took the papers and looked at them.

"You will be doing only half of what I had intended, and I want you to videotape the whole thing and I'll transcribe it. I had not wanted things to go in this way, but it cannot be helped. Do you understand your instructions?"

Again, Arthur affirmed.

"Good. You can leave everything here when you're done. Just bring Antonio back to his room afterwards."

Finally Roderick turned on his heels and walked out the door.

When the doctor had made his abrupt departure, Arthur and Antonio looked each other briefly.

"What was that for?" Antonio asked.

Arthur merely shrugged. He took a seat behind the desk, wondering if he should be sitting in Roderick's chair. He did it anyway so he could get right to work turning on the video recorder on the tablet and going straight to the interrogation with Antonio.

All of the questions were generic. A good handful of them were standard for a general psychiatric or medical diagnosis. Then the rest were about whether or not Antonio could recall certain information. The patient was only able to answer half of them correctly, and he made strange explanations for the rest.

Throughout the whole interrogation, Antonio would ask questions. At first, they were simply about Arthur's input on why Roderick had suddenly left. Then they were about whether or not Arthur and Antonio had actually met. Then, for an odd reason, Antonio began to ask about Arthur's personal life. All of the personal questions tended to jump around, going from siblings to housing to friends to drinking. But no matter how many times Antonio asked or seemed to disregard what Arthur was saying, the blond intern didn't respond to any of them. Arthur didn't even nod or shake his head. All he cared about was asking Antonio Roderick's designated questions, so Arthur disregarded everything else. Antonio appeared rather frustrated with Arthur's unresponsive behaviour, for the patient pouted whenever Arthur cut him off. Nevertheless, Antonio continued to ask, and Arthur never replied.

For once, Arthur realised how convenient it was to not answer.


End file.
